Lament of the Nightingale Book Four of Nightingale's Odyssey
by Shadowcrest Nightingale
Summary: 1899, Erik has been in Eurasia, or so the story goes. His family harbors the dark truth. Behind the mansion's walls a war has raged for over a year. The battle has only begun. For Erik's honor. For Christine's devotion. For Nadir's friendship. For Charles's passionate dream. What is the price of true love? Historical fiction. Leroux/Kay. LV.
1. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

 _ **~1899~**_

Applause exploded within the theatre as the audience rose to their feet, eyes focused down upon the singular figure, offering a neat bow in the middle of the floor.

"Thank you. Thank you." Slowly Doctor William Wright edged backwards, gesturing towards the door. "It has been a lengthy lecture and I thank you for your attendance. There are refreshments provided, if you will follow me."

A general buzz of conversation filled the surgical theatre that had been used as a lecture hall, disgorging the crowd comprised mostly of finely dressed men. As this had not been an actual surgical procedure demonstration, a few men had brought their wives to listen to the esteemed doctor speak.

Just outside the door, Wright stood amongst a crowd of gentlemen engaged in a discussion concerning the lecture. He did not notice as a solitary figure hovered in silence on the edge of the crowd. Minutes ticked by until at long last the gentlemen excused themselves for refreshments just down the hallway. Only then did he glance to his left to discover her presence.

"Doctor William Wright." The gaze of her bright blue eyes was strong, but he detected a note of weariness as she took a step toward him. "I am to understand through your lecture that you are a man who discovered success with a good percentage of, shall we say, challenging cases. Am I correct?"

Flashing her a smile at the compliment, he rubbed the fingers of his left hand on the lapel of his dress jacket. A man married to his work, the only ring on his finger was an inherited signet ring. He had slicked back his hair with a little gel, adding a sheen. Everything about him was polished and refined. "It seems I have an admirer in you, young miss … "

"Madame." She corrected him quietly, her eyes momentarily dropping to the impression of the wedding band concealed by her gloves. "I assure you, Doctor, my interests venture only in so far as your expertise in the medical field."

Straightening up, he took a step back from this strange women, to evaluate her with his eyes. She was of moderate age, perhaps approaching her late thirties or closer to forty. It was difficult to tell. Dressed in a finely tailored gown that followed her trim figure to the waist, the fabric exhibited that she came from a household with significant money. The brocade was a shimmering tone-on-tone in a midnight blue trimmed with black lace and intricate bead work. The tailoring was a masterwork and the labor fee must have been exorbitant. Wearing her blond hair bound up high, she let a few tendrils curl out from the jeweled binding. Whomever had managed to wed this lovely women was indeed a lucky man.

Wright cast his eyes out into the crowd, searching for the husband. However no one seemed to be hovering around. Settling his gaze back upon her, he cleared his throat. "My apologies. Madame, it is. Tell me, what is it that interests you so in my work?"

Glancing over her shoulder, she gave a quick surveillance of the room to ensure that no one was listening before she replied keeping her voice as low as possible. "I wish for a diagnosis."

"Madame?" His eyes widened before he laughed at the request. "You seem quite healthy to me. My expertise is in neuroscience. I can tell by the blushing upon your cheeks that you are in fine health."

Clasping her hands in front of her, she grew rigid and studied the floor for a long moment before she dared to raise her head. The eyes, which before had been so strong, trembled with the weight of a great burden. "It is not for me. I implore you, Doctor Wright, to accept the challenge that I have to offer you. You will be well compensated for your time away from Massachusetts General Hospital."

Wright lifted a hand to brush against his mustache in thought. "What precisely are you asking? Where would I be going?"

"Manhattan."

A bout of laughter left him. No wonder she seemed so weary! The cities of Boston and Manhattan were over two-hundred miles apart. That was quite a long way, even by train. "Manhattan? Oh my, what a nice little day trip. That is an amusing request. Where is that husband of yours who put you up to this little jest?"

His words only stiffened her. Grasping the fold of her dress, she did not look away from him. Instead her head lifted in a firm resolve. "My husband was unable to attend. A journey from my home to Boston is assuredly not an inconsequential trip to take upon a lark. What I offer you is a chance to unravel a mystery none of your colleagues have managed to begin to understand. I am under the impression that I have chosen the wrong man of science, you appear to be disinclined to the inconvenience."

"Now, now, Madame." He held out his hands placating her. "Pardon me, I meant no disrespect. I don't often get requests of this nature, as the majority of my patients come here to me by manner of an appointment … you have however, peaked my interest. A mystery you say? Others have tried and failed?" This was sounding interesting. Wright's career had found its rising surge when he oversaw a number of exploratory surgeries right here at Massachusetts General Hospital. He enjoyed surgery as a process, but the cases that pushed things to the next level, the cases where he was doing that which had not been tried before — _that_ was what he lived for. If he could resolve what other fellows in his field could not, well now … that was just one more stroke to his growing genius.

"Not here." She shook her head resolutely. "I will tell you more once we reach Manhattan. If you agree to accompany me, I will make the arrangements for the train straightaway. We can leave tonight."

Raising an eyebrow he brought his hands together before him. "Tonight? You are in such a rush … is there a reason?"

"I have been gone too long already."

* * *

"Well?" Wright stretched his legs as far as the brougham would allow. The horses pulled through the cobblestone streets at a brisk pace. "You said you would tell me more once we arrived. We're in Manhattan. Will you at least tell me your name?"

Her eyes remained locked outside the window as the buildings of Uptown Manhattan flew past. It was a beautiful April day with the budding trees along the boulevards casting a green hue to the world. Winter had been so cold and dreary. She shivered at the memories when Wright's voice broke the turbulent silence. "Madame Christine Daae." The train ride with Doctor Wright and her manservant had been long. The entire time she had remained locked in silence, not out of rudeness but because she could not seem to find any answers for his endless string of questions. It seemed so much simpler to sit as a statue locked in stony silence. Soon enough they would arrive, soon enough he would find his own answers.

Rounding the corner, the brougham carried them past the east side of Central Park. South a few more blocks and, once they turned the corner, she would see it again. Home. _Clef de Voute Manoir._ The stone mansion dominated an entire block on the corner of 57th street and 7th avenue. The Beaux Arts building stood three stories and stretched into two wings adorned with elegant carvings. Both the second story balcony above the entrance and the entrance itself were guarded by immense gargoyles arching their heads into the sky.

Trotting past the main entrance, the carriage carried them toward the stable entrance. When the door opened, Christine dropped down and hurried towards the servant entrance. "Follow me, they will get your things."

"Madame Daae," Wright glanced about the unusual debarking. "What is the meaning of this? Is there a reason not to use the front door?"

"Yes." She waved a hand, conducting him inside with haste. Once he was inside, she glanced out the door before shutting them into the more confined space. "Good, no one saw. Please follow me."

* * *

Wright narrowed his eyes as he watched his peculiar hostess open a cellar door. Curiosity got the better of him, he was forced to follow her down the servant's staircase. This was beginning to feel like he truly was the subject of some extremely elaborate prank, "I must ask where we are going. If this is some kind of a joke … "

"It is most certainly not. Now you must heed my words," she called over her shoulder. "Keep your distance. If you enter, it is completely at your own risk. It would be better if you didn't this first time. Keep your voice down. And if you hear us tell you to run, just do it without question."

His eyes opened wide for a moment as he saw her pause before a thick iron door with a hefty bar locked in place. What in heaven's name was something like this doing in an upper class cellar?

A strange intermittent tapping echoed through the corridor, stealing his attention. The flicker of a shadow cast against the wall by a swaying lantern was just one more bizarre element in this strange adventure. Though it appeared these people were well off, he began to question what manner of mansion this place was. Perhaps, a madhouse? At last the mystery of the tapping presented itself when a short gaunt man came around the corner on a pair of crutches. His lower right leg wrapped securely in a single thick strip of wide linen with the evidence of a splint on either side. He put no weight on the injured limb as he slowly made his way towards them. A set of keys hung from one hand and the lantern handle from the other. The poor old man was struggling to maneuver the crutches at the same time, but managing it. Straggling strands of long gray that escaped his partially bound hair at his neck dangled into his face.

"Finally," he gasped. "It's about damn time you got home."

"How has today been, Nadir?" She reached out a hand and gently took the lantern from him.

Nadir's shoulders sagged despite the crutches. Bloodshot eyes bagged from exhaustion stared blindly at the door. "Bad. Very, very bad." At last he spied the new arrival. His eyes slowly drifted up and down the doctor's figure. "So, this must be the esteemed Doctor Wright. Has she given you the warnings?"

Mutely, he nodded. There were no words to describe what he was feeling. Apprehension? Suspicion? Dread? What were these people up to? What had happened to this man's leg?

Hobbling over to the lock on the door, Nadir sighed as he lifted a key from the ring. "Then, let's get this over with." The lock opened with a heavy clank. Removing it from the latch, he required Christine's assistance to slide back the bar that kept the door from pivoting on its hinges. When at last it was free to move on well oiled hinges, the foot thick iron door swung into the room.

The large chamber at one time had been a storeroom and now appeared to be empty. The light cast by the lantern only reached so far. Wright was about to berate them for this ridiculous joke when he heard the sound of a metallic scraping from inside the room.

"What the … " Deep in the shadows, was there something in there? His eyes adjusted to the dim light, There was the outline of some object lurking in the shadows. He heard it again, the scraping of iron across the floor. A clinking like … like the links of heavy chains.

"Doctor Wright." Christine held up the lantern gesturing toward the door. "Meet my husband. Erik."

Nothing prepared him for the sight. The moment the dim lantern cast its rays over the figure, it shrank back, covering eyes with two heavily shackled hands. Under the ragged clothing that hung in disrepair on his frame, he was emaciated, bone thin with a pale cast to his flesh that eerily reminded Wright of cave dwelling creatures entirely unaccustomed to the exposure of the sun. Bare foot, around his ankles another set of heavy shackles bound him to the wall on short chains. Each of the four chains that held him fast to the wall were a meter in length, secured with a thick ring bolted directly into the stones of the cellar itself. The figure wasn't standing so much as half crouching against the wall. Slowly he lowered a hand, revealing the second shock for the poor doctor as he laid his eyes upon the deformed face. The man had no nose of which to speak of. From below his overgrown silver hair, the skin that covered his face down to the malformed upper lip was extremely thin, leaving the contours of the skull visible. As the mismatched eyes, filled with hostility, stared up at him he had an eerie feeling there was a demon lurking behind them. Wright wasn't particularly a religious man and yet he wondered if calling for a priest would be a far better solution.

"Good God!" He gasped out. "What have you done to him?"

Nadir lowered his head murmuring. "I assure you, all this is necessary. We have had no choice but to continually strengthen his bonds as he found ways to escape from them."

Daring to glance around the room, he noted there was nothing in it. Just the strange man in his iron restraints. "Where is his bed? A blanket?"

Christine shook her head sadly but it was Nadir who answered. "Anything left with him swiftly becomes a weapon."

A low maniacal laugh echoed in the chamber. Wright looked up with a start to realize the chilling sound came from that man. He was smiling, a strange twisted smile infused with that crazed glimmer dwelling in his eyes. There was something very wrong with this man, but he could not look away.

The lips opened, it was like watching a skull speaking some other language, a haunted voice from beyond the grave.

Wright shook his head. "He's spouting nonsense. Complete and utter nonsense."

Tensely, Nadir shook his head, his own eyes locked upon Erik. But he was not entranced by what he was seeing. He was watching every slow move the chained figure made. "That is not nonsense, Doctor. He is speaking Persian … though it is slurred, it is still distinguishable. He bids us welcome."

"Persian?" Wright took a step over the threshold watching as Erik's eyes followed him.

He lowered a shackled hand to the floor leaning on the arm with the cold smile. He spoke again, lower this time and the tone much more sinister.

"Erik!" Nadir snapped. "I will not translate that rude suggestion! Have some manners! I wish you would stop this game."

Erik's reply was a grim mutter with a forefinger flicking up at the doctor.

"That's it, I'm tired of this." Nadir was about to turn and leave when Christine laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Please. Ask him."

Sighing, Nadir hobbled back a little closer to the door. "Want to see something that no one can explain, Doctor? Listen to this … Erik, speak English."

To which Erik began to laugh and continued to interject his bouts of insidious laughter with Persian snippets that only Nadir was privy to.

Taking a deep breath, Nadir shifted his gaze towards the doctor "And now, in Persian." He barked out another short phrase in the language that Wright couldn't understand.

Erik crouched a little lower against the wall, the chain securing his wrist swinging in the shadows. "But, Daroga, where is the fun in that?" His words were halting, labored, and slurred.

"You have a visitor." Nadir pointed to Wright. "Now, behave."

"Since when has that request done anyone any good?" Erik chuckled before turning his hostile eyes to Wright. "So, the Daroga has brought a fresh offering for the Angel of Doom in his pit of horrors. Very well, very well, my patron of the art of death. Step closer and we can commence."

Wright involuntarily took another step into the room. "Remarkable. But I must give you full disclosure. I am primarily a neurosurgeon not a psychologist."

Shifting his leg, Nadir let a breath out wryly. "A lot of good _that_ consult did … Erik drove him into becoming his own client. I believe he is still a patient at Manhattan State Hospital. You are familiar with their psychiatric ward?"

Freezing, Wright cast a worried glance over his shoulder before once more returning to Erik who was now rocking back and forth on the floor, setting the chains to clink in a wild rhythm as he giggled sinisterly. Those cold mismatched eyes—the right of an almost pupil-less brown and the left an icy blue—were utterly consumed by a blazing madness. But his body looked so emaciated, he could hardly get far with those heavy chains. "He's clearly delusional … locked in some made up fantasy."

"Delusional, yes." Nadir confirmed. "However, it is not a made up world. I can assure you I am well aware of precisely the point Erik's mind has latched onto in his personal history. It is what makes him the most dangerous. For whatever reason, he is convinced he is back in the courts of my native Persia. He does not recognize his wife or his own son … only me, and only in the role I played back in those courts. The danger comes from what his role was."

Taking another fascinated step forward, Wright watched as Erik reached and tugged on his own silver hair almost forming a forelock. Every motion the man made was beset with a series of tiny tremors leaving each gesture to be executed in a jerking pattern.

Laughter filled the air as he pulled hard on the hair. "Death awaits all who enter my kingdom! Come and meet your end in a dance of writhing agony at my hands. These hands … these hands … oh how skilled and gifted! The darkness will come and take all of humanity away, drowned in the filth of what comprises it … will you try to glimpse the monster? Will you try and outwit him? Oh come, please come! Come closer … "

Wright leaned forward, drawn in by the whispered taunts. He stared with his mouth open as Erik's hand slowly untangled from the silver hair. Stretched between his fingers was a single shimmering strand. The iris of his blue eye rapidly broadened, pushing his pupil to near a pin point. It was too dark in the room to see how the deep brown iris was performing. But his lips … the corners of his lips contorted into a shivering grin the moment before he lashed out!

Erik slipped the strand of hair around the doctor's wrist. Away from the wall, the weight of the shackles drove his body to the floor. But the moment the startled doctor tried to pull back, he found a sharp pain constricting against his flesh. Thrashing, Erik pulled back on the strand, indentations showing where he had twirled it around his fingers. He was laughing! Evil and filled with malice, he was laughing as he watched the doctor struggle to free himself from a simple strand of human hair.

Christine darted into the room, pulling back the hood on the lantern. The moment the full force of the light hit his eyes, Erik scrambled back against the wall, covering his head with his arms. Wreathed in his chains, he continued to rock back and forth, laughing uncontrollably to himself.

The moment he felt the tension released, Doctor Wright flung himself out into the corridor, panting for breath. He tore the strand of hair from about his wrist and flung it away, staring in horror at the huddled figure inside that room. There was no sympathy for the man's plight now, only terror at what he had just experienced.

Wordlessly, Nadir and Christine shut the door, pulled the substantial latch into place and reset the lock. Their heavy eyes at last turning to the doctor on the floor. She offered him a hand helping him to his feet. "Remember, I told you entering the room was at your own risk. Come, the staff will have prepared tea for us in the study." Stiffly, she turned to head up the stairs.

Wright cast a hesitant glance at Nadir as he adjusted his grip on the crutches. Casually, the Persian replied, "You are far from the first doctor to have met him. The staff has grown accustomed to how this proceeds. Let's hope it fares better for you than it has for the others."

* * *

"I am sorry, but that man is completely psychotic!" Wright stuttered, huddled on the couch before a warm cheery fire. But he felt neither the warmth nor any cheer. He was rattled to the core.

Christine held out a cup of tea for him. "You are fortunate, his attempt to hurt you was nothing more than him toying with you. It amounted to a prank."

Taking a sip from the tea, he placed the cup aside, not wishing to embarrass himself by spilling it with his shaking hands. "Prank? Madame, your husband tried to sever my hand from my arm."

He would not have succeeded." Nadir had settled himself on the full sofa, propping the splinted leg up on a pillow. He rubbed his thigh absently. "Fortunately the strand would have snapped long before it had done any real damage. Sometimes it's like he just wants to scare people. But I do believe you see why he cannot have access to much of anything. A strip of fabric in that fashion and you might not have a hand, dear Surgeon."

Flicking his eyes to the injured leg, Wright did not have to the ask question. Nadir offered the explanation with a weary sigh.

"Yes. This was the result of a careless visit of mine. As I repeat, feeding him is a challenge on its own, nothing can be left in the room with him. He managed to trick me into turning my back on him for just a second. The chain looped around my leg and in one savage pull I heard the bone snap. Fortunately, I never go down there alone. The stable master, Jacques came to my aid with the lantern or I assure you, remembering me or not, Erik would have killed me."

Wright shuddered as he reached for the tea. Taking a very long sip he stared at the broken limb. "Has … has he always been this way?"

"Good heavens, no. Erik is a highly skilled genius. This mansion was designed and built by him." Sitting down beside the doctor, Christine blew on her cup of tea to cool it. "It's been a spiral downward. We noticed he was having some difficulties with hallucinations, hearing voices around the fall of 1896. He managed to keep things moderately under control well into the next year, only a few rough moments here and there … " The tea rested forgotten in her lap as she shut her eyes. "Then, the following winter the incidents grew more and more troubling. By the spring of last year, he lost complete control … we knew we had no choice but to do as you have seen for everyone's safety. Throughout the year he has been confined, we have gone through so many attempts to help him … no one has been able to reach my husband. What you see down there, that is not him."

Shifting in his seat, Nadir lowered his head. "Even in Persia he was never quite this erratic. He still had command of his faculties. But he served the court in various ways, the most troublesome to us now being magician and assassin. Keeping him securely confined has been a constant race to defeat his skilled fingers. If he does manage to get loose, the damage that ensues is … well, that is why we try to prevent that at all costs. Erik believes himself to be the Angel of Doom, lurking in the fighting pit for his next victim. If we go down there now he will have no memory of having met you, I will be required to request him speak in English, everything resets the moment that door shuts on him. We have found no way to effectively penetrate into his state of mind, nothing reaches him."

Wright sat up a little straighter, curiosity overcoming his fear. "What has been tried?"

Christine placed her cup of tea aside. "Psychotherapy."

Added Nadir blandly, "He's in the State Hospital's asylum ward, as I mentioned."

"There was that gentleman," she scowled at the word, "who claimed he was on the verge of a breakthrough with his experimental electrical treatment."

Nadir shook his head, "That poor fellow, he should have been watching the wires. Erik sent him to the burn unit before even one _successful_ treatment."

"A variety of medications administered by the doctors."

"Let's see … one retired after his second attempt to get Erik to comply, another had his nose broken when Erik bashed it in with the shackle, and the third is still in traction ."

By now Wright had lost a fair amount of color and was absently rubbing his nose.

"Shall I go on?" Christine asked dismally. When his only reply was the widening of his eyes, she looked into her lap, fingers caressing the plain gold wedding band. "As you can see, we have sought out various methods in an attempt to bring him back to some form of stability. They have failed. Erik has remained a prisoner in his own cellar out of necessity. I have tirelessly chased down the best that medicine has to offer." Her eyes rose, locking firmly with his. "I want my husband restored to me, Doctor Wright. I want you to figure out what is keeping him from remembering his loved ones, his life. You have to solve this mystery. You have to bring him back to me!"

The fire crackled in the silent room. The penetration of her desperate eyes added to his already peaked curiosity. What was driving this man so deeply into madness? Science always holds the answer when the right question is asked. That must be it, these other learned men had failed to ask the right question.

"Alright." He replied with a determined light in his eyes. "Tomorrow morning I want another chance to get into that room with him. Is there a way to get close to him without risking injury?"

Nadir rubbed his chin with an age-gnarled hand. "I can try to sneak a sedative into his drink tomorrow. There is no guarantee it will work. If he suspects it, he has been known to fake unconsciousness, lying in wait. But if it works, you will have a short period of time to examine him. Use it wisely. He is extremely furious after being sedated. No one should enter the chamber for a full day afterward."

Nodding with consent, Wright let his eyes drift to the now hopeful eyes of Christine. "If sedation is essential, I will take that chance first. If you will show me to my room, I should like to rest before tomorrow."

Christine waved in the manservant who had accompanied her. "Would you show Doctor Wright to his room please."

The moment he had departed, Nadir reached down and gripped the bandage just below the knee. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get up and down that many stairs like this? I can't keep this up!"

Coming to his side, she pulled out a basket with some fresh linen and a few important supplies. "I am sorry, Nadir. I wish there was another way to keep Erik talking so we can understand him. Just a little longer. Perhaps Doctor Wright will prove wiser. When was your last bandage change?"

"Two days ago," he muttered. "It hurts like hell even with the medication the doctor gave me. I am tempted to try Erik's pain remedy."

Gently unwrapping the binding, Christine eventually bared the swollen and bruised flesh beneath. Two straps, one just above his ankle and one just below the knee, held the splints in place. On the inside of his leg, a set of stitches held the flesh together from a long laceration. It looked healthy enough, no angry red streaks or pus. But there was no doubting evidence that the bone had punctured the flesh before being reset by a doctor. "It doesn't look too bad. Thank goodness." Gently cleaning the stitches, she did her best not to cause him any further discomfort. "It will heal in no time."

He sighed, his head sinking down into his hand. "Christine. How long are you going to keep this up? He hasn't been lucid in nearly a year. You're endangering everyone. This isn't fair to Erik, either."

She stiffened as she kept wrapping the linen around the damage her husband had wrought. "What do you expect me to do, Nadir? Hrm? Would you end it for him? I know the answer to that! Would you send him away to some asylum, where there isn't a chance in hell anyone would understand what he's saying? Not to mention the dangers that would pose! Can you imagine the average staff of an asylum trying to keep him contained. Dear Lord, it would be a blood bath on the first night!"

Peering between his fingers, he flinched at her statements. They were trapped by this horrific affliction that plagued Erik. There was nowhere safe to send him … nothing they could do but push onwards in trying to find a cure … trying to identify why he was so deranged. It did not change how incredibly draining and dangerous every day had become, just trying to administer the basics to a man who insisted on trying to kill everyone who opened the door. They had been forced to abandoned all but the most basic care. The once fastidiously clean gentleman would have been appalled at the dirty rags he was left in.

"Well, Nadir?" Christine tied the knot of the binding. "I'm waiting. Do you have any other brilliant suggestions?"

"No." He sighed. "You know, given his previous attempts, it's only a matter of time before he figures his way out of those bonds. Anyone in his path will undoubtedly die. What if it is you?"

She couldn't suppress a shudder.

In the silence Nadir continued, "but I still think the conditions of that chamber are incredibly inhumane. The Erik I know would not be happy with that sort of confinement. I swear he would rather die."

Flinching, she rose to her feet staring down at Nadir. "You and I both know him better than anyone else in this world. I can't disagree with your words … but Nadir, what choice did we have? Look what he did to you while restrained! Imagine if we let him out again!"

Closing his eyes, he sighed. "I wasn't suggesting releasing him in that manner. But you are right … I could never do it. Even as he is now … I could never force my hand to end his life."

Christine's head fell forward onto his shoulder. Without any sound she just rested there with tears dripping down her cheeks. Nadir took her hand, gently rubbing it. The crackling of the fire in the room was the only sound until she spoke. "I know he tried to kill you, I know he hurt you badly when he broke your leg. But I won't give up on him! Erik is still in there. We just have to figure out how to reach him."

Nadir sighed, "I hope you are right. You don't know how much I hope you are right."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

"You're fortunate. By the looks of it he didn't suspect a thing and swallowed the entire hidden dose concealed in the ale." Leaning against the door, Nadir eyed the unconscious shackled figure in the room. Tipped onto his left side, Erik's hand still embraced the thick wooden tankard. Stretched out on the floor, his eyes barely twitched as he slowly breathed, a slight trail of saliva clung to his slackened lips. "Take care, approach slowly. But I don't see where he spilled anything in an attempt to deceive us. He seems to have eaten the entire meal and drank the full tankard without even a thought."

Holding the lantern high, Wright edged into the room. "So, he eats well?"

"Oh yes." Hobbling in on his crutches, Nadir stayed behind the doctor. "Doesn't seem to matter what I provide. Fruit, vegetables, small cuts of meat, when he behaves for a bit I've had the cook make a custard which he seems to like. Not that he remembers from day to day … but it's a gesture that helps with some of the guilt. Of course, there is no silverware allowed in here, a knife is entirely out of the question. There is no need to goad him into eating, the hard part comes from getting the dishes back."

"Wood, I see."

"The only option. Metal would be lethal, any form of china or pottery far too breakable, leaving behind shards." He shrugged. "The wood can splinter if he throws it hard enough, but generally they survive for the longest duration." Hovering near, Erik he noted. "You best get on with your examination of him. We'll have no longer than a quarter of an hour before our safety will be in check. When Erik wakes, he will be more than furious and there will be no entering the room for the remainder of the day."

Glancing up, Wright handed Nadir the empty plate and tankard. "I thought you said the moment the door closes he doesn't seem to recall what happened."

The Persian laughed, "Yes, but drugging him has a more lasting effect. He does not fancy being tricked."

Turning back to his patient, Wright lifted Erik's limp arm observing the malformed skin on his face. Closer to the deformity, he found his mind troubled to explain what he was seeing. The texture appeared different than the rest of his body. Thinner, pale, and with a slight sheen in the lantern light. "Self mutilation?" He murmured aloud, speculating on what seemed to be an immense scar.

"From birth, as I understand it," Nadir replied. "He has said as much."

Shuddering briefly, Wright swallowed. "Well, it is not the cause of this, then. Brings me to another question. He is not a youthful man if the silver hair speaks true." Gently probing Erik's hand he nodded. "The wrinkling of the skin also speaks of advanced age. How old is he?"

"Good question." He shifted on the crutches, maneuvering so he could lean against the wall. "I can tell you this much, I am a few years older than he is."

"And you are aware of your age?"

"Of course, I just reached my seventieth year. Erik must be in his late sixties. It is a rough guess, as when we first met the age difference was more notable."

Wright nodded, "Well, there's a few things instantly apparent. He shows signs of having lost muscle tone from being confined down here, and he has almost no fat tissue under that exceptionally pale skin."

"Only the muscle tone is a true change," he replied, tapping a crutch on the floor idly. "As long as I have known Erik he hasn't shown any evidence of fat, not a ripple of it. His complexion is naturally pale … however, now that I look closer it's even whiter, resembling when he … " Nadir paused for a moment catching himself before he accidentally revealed too much of Erik's past, " … spent an extended period of time out of the daylight."

Fortunately, Wright was only concentrating on the scientific details. "Well, looking at his face again … it's different than the rest of his skin, but perhaps if there is a greater deficiency in adipose tissue in the facial region it may have that result. I'm not sure, I would have to consult with a epidermis specialist." Picking up Erik's thin wrist, he tapped the fingers, feeling the reflex. "Hrm, factoring for the sedated effect, the impulse is about expected." Reaching down to the bare foot, he held onto the ankle and rapped on his toe. Creasing his brow he did it twice. "That however, is not." Taking Erik's other ankle just below the shackle he repeated the reflex test, not liking the result. Quickly in succession he began exploring other reflex points. "Oh my, this is telling."

"What is?" Nadir distractedly counted the number of times Erik's chest rose within a minute. The fine twitches and occasional moan that escaped him meant nothing. It was when his breathing first begins to quicken they would need to get out. He knew that the enthralled doctor would miss those warning signs.

"His reflexes … they aren't consistent … from one point to the next." Exploring the legs again he shook his head. "No … from moment to moment there is some variation. How very odd."

Shifting back to the face, he held the lantern so he could see a little better. "Ocular depth looks normal."

"Hrm?" Nadir glanced up with a mild start. "You mean his eyes? They should be sunken in … and they're not."

"Really?" Placing a finger lightly against the thin skin around Erik's eyes, he shook his head. "The depth appears normal. So, that must have been a gradual change. You did not notice?"

He blinked, leaning closer. "Not until you mentioned it … but then again, in recent times with how violent he became, I have not had much time to spare to actually look at him. Most of my time is spent watching what he is trying to do. That is why so much has had to be neglected … drugging him for something as simple as a clothing change became a great risk, as we had to unshackle him in the process. Safety became a greater factor."

Wright glanced at the garments his patient wore. They appeared to have been a set of pajamas, the now ragged long sleeve shirt hung open where the buttons had been purposefully removed. He suspected why the hard little objects had been denied. Lifting the edge of the shirt he noted an old scar between two ribs on the chest. It appeared to have once been a knife wound, apparently sustained in youth as the scar showed signs of stretching with age. Pulling the shirt wider he examined the back, finding yet more scarring. These marks crisscrossing and layered looked to be from a lash. When his eyes searched up at the Persian he received nothing but silence.

"Hrm, evidence of previous trauma," was all he remarked, before reaching forward and prying open both of Erik's eyes. The lantern light poured into the dilated pupils, the sedative slowed the effect as the muscles reacted to the light. Wright's forehead creased deeply as he watched, flicking his gaze between the mismatched irises. Was it his imagination? No! It wasn't just an illusion caused by the different colors.

"Fascinating … that blue eye, the one on the left, the pupil is contracting slower than his right eye. The reaction is uneven."

"And that means … ?" Nadir pushed off from the wall, letting his crutches take the weight once more.

"Well, the reaction is slowed by the fact he is drugged. But it only makes the difference in speed more apparent. Something is altering the ability to react. No doubt in my mind." Allowing the eyes to convulse shut, he looked up into Nadir's inquisitive gaze. "There is some kind of disruption in the signal, the effects are wide spread. Have you ever witnessed him having a seizure?"

"Yes, intermittently." Counting the breathing, Nadir shifted uneasily. "Do you have any idea what could be causing it? Doctor, I warn you, his wife has been through hell already with all the false promises. Do not give her some vain declaration!"

Casting his eyes back to Erik's twitching eyelids Wright rubbed his mustache. "I have a few theories, unfortunately none of them can be confirmed without him being fully conscious."

Erik's fingers stirred, the rattle of the chain an ominous warning as the cadence of his respiration grew more rapid.

Tapping the doctor's leg with the crutch, Nadir jerked his head towards the door. "Grab the lantern, we need to get out of here **now** before he wakes up. I'll bring you back tomorrow morning, that will be the first chance he'll be approachable."

Reluctantly, Wright grabbed onto the handle of the lantern, glancing over his shoulder as he rose to his feet. This was a boggling case, Madame Daae had been quite correct in calling it a challenge. "I will use the time to consult my medical journals for anything that may help us."

Shutting the door behind them, Wright assisted Nadir in locking the patient inside. Wordlessly, the men left the basement without a backward glance.

Inside the darkened chamber, the chains scrapped against the stone as Erik's shaking limbs pushed him off the floor. Harsh breaths broke the silence before he threw his head back to release a savage scream.

* * *

"I have not heard from him recently." Christine set the tea cup on the table between the high-backed leather chairs in Erik's sitting room. "You have my apologies for the delay, Signor Grimaudo."

With a frustrated sigh, the foreman who had been running Shadowcrest Industries in Erik's unexpected absence wrung his cap between his callused hands. "Where is he now?"

"The last I have heard, he was still in Italy visiting some architectural sites," she replied resolutely.

"So, after searching for quarries to procure more travertine, he has continued to tour Europe exploring the old buildings?" Piero Grimaudo shook his head. He was an American born Italian of humble origins, he had been entirely unprepared to represent the remarkable talent of Erik's company. He had been given no choice. Years ago, the great architect had selected Grimaudo as the most likely candidate, grooming the trusted foreman for a more involved role. The outcome had been unfortunate, however, like most of society Grimaudo was unaware of the true fate of his employer. "Madame Daae, I need to get word to him, and a response! It has been over a year since I have conversed with him. The contracts are nearing completion. I know you told me he trusted my word on a couple of the previous projects, but we are also near finishing the last one arranged before his departure. There are no more contracts secured for the future. We need Monsieur Erik's word on what we should be doing next."

Folding her hands upon her lap, she nodded. "I will try and get a reply from him. Has anyone approached you for a contract in the meantime?"

"Well," wringing his hat a little tighter, he confessed, "yes, there have been a few gentlemen who have inquired. But without Monsieur Erik to draw the plans … and without knowing when he will return from Europe, how can I make arrangements?"

How she wanted to drop her head into her hands. It was hard enough knowing the truth of Erik's whereabouts. Trying to maintain the lie and manage his various businesses had become a grueling task. Previously nothing had commenced without Erik's explicit word. Grimaudo would come calling on a regular basis, each time getting more desperate for an answer she could not begin to give him. Each time, all she could do was extend the excuse for her husband's absence. For now his books still maintained a financial balance, but she could not ignore the fact that Erik's once secure empire had been weakened tragically.

Offering him a thin smile she suggested, "I know that Erik was not the only one who drew the designs, there were a few young prospects he had mentioned with architectural skills. Perhaps they might fill in for now? You know the crew as well as he did … does. He trusts you to make decisions in his stead. Proceed with what choices you believe he would make."

Bowing his head, he began to leave the room. "Thank you for the meeting, Madame Daae. I will work my hardest for Monsieur Erik, as always. Send your husband my regards when next you contact him."

When he had left the room, a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. "I would … if I could. Oh God, Erik … why is this happening? I have no idea what I am doing."

The tapping of Nadir's crutches caught her attention as the old Persian entered the room, shutting the door behind him.

Looking up, she dashed the tear away. "How did it go?"

Hobbling over to the other chair, he collapsed down into it with a groan. "I've been waiting to get off my foot for a while now … he took it. Your doctor had a good opportunity to examine him before we had to leave."

Clasping her hands, she leaned forward eagerly. "What did he find? Anything?"

A slow rise of his shoulder accompanied a sigh. "Theories. Just more theories. Tomorrow he wants to try testing some of them when he's awake and supposedly cooperative." He rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt we will see much of the latter."

Hesitantly, Christine took her tea cup back into her hands, just something to keep them occupied. "What does he think is wrong … tell me Nadir, tell me that he has some brilliant idea! He is a phenomenal neurosurgeon. A doctor on the cutting edge in the best research hospital in New England … that's why I went to him."

"Calm down," he murmured, casting his weary gaze her way. "He seems to have made a few observations I have not heard before. But in the end, he left the room just as perplexed as the rest of them. I am troubled at raising my hopes too high."

Lifting the cup without drinking, she set it back into the saucer once more. Words were unnecessary as she just stared blindly into the lukewarm tea.

Shifting his gaze to the ceiling Nadir tightened his grip on the crutches in his right hand. "Due to this morning's task with the esteemed doctor, I now have no more duties for this day. If you will excuse me … it's been some time since I have had the opportunity to fully rest."

Grunting at the effort, he pulled himself out of the chair before tapping his way across the floor. Pausing with a hand on the doorknob, he looked back over his shoulder at the still frozen figure of Christine, her eyes unblinking. He wanted to comfort her, console her troubled spirit. But the longer he stood there the more he realized no words remained within him. The hope he would ever see his friend restored to a rational state of mind had been dashed to pieces days ago, the moment that chain had very nearly dragged him to his death … the chain he had been forced to lock in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

Turning the key in the lock, Nadir heaved a sigh. "When Jacques and I fed him this morning he was in a rather foul temper, as sometimes happens after he misses a meal."

Holding the lantern, Doctor Wright tightened his grip on the handle of his cane. "You mean to tell me no one fed him last night?"

Pulling the lock loose from the latch, he shoved it inside his pocket. With weary fingers he prepared to draw back the bar. "Apparently you weren't listening when I told you no one can enter for the remainder of the day. So yes, he only got his sedative laced breakfast yesterday. It doesn't matter what the reason is, the violence is intensified. I advise you to use some caution, though he is calmer now, he is still extremely dangerous."

Attempting to maneuver the crutches and shift the door, Nadir grunted. "Doctor … a little help here would be appreciated."

With a slight start, Wright moved forward pushing against the cold iron door. As the light from the single lantern entered the room, it was answered by the scraping of iron links across the floor. The faint glimmer of two narrowed eyes caught his searching gaze before Erik shielded them, shuffling back on his knees into the shadows as far as the chains would permit him.

It was still a staggering sight … the condition of the figure inside the chamber. Engaging no small amount of resolve, Wright pushed back the repulsion, embracing the prospect of understanding this mystery. He had a plan, he reminded himself. All he needed to do was stick to it.

Erik spread his fingers, those hostile eyes once more fixed in an ugly scowl upon the intruders of his solitary confinement. He snarled out a low string of Persian with a tone that betrayed the underlying threat.

Tensing, Nadir grasped his crutches tighter. "Oh, he is still very annoyed! Doctor, I'm not so certain we should be in here right now."

Swinging the lantern a little higher, purposefully lifting the hood to expose more light, Wright shook his head. "If you want a diagnosis, I need to test a few things."

Tilting his head to the right, Erik growled. His acidic rebuke did not require a translation as he raised his hand pointing at the lantern. The limb tremored in the air, shaking the chain enough for it to capture and amplify the effects of the motion.

Nadir flinched at the words only he understood. "He does not like what you are doing … Doctor, that was a warning to cover the light before he lights up your insides."

"Refreshing … " Wright replied, taking a distracted step into the room. He kept his distance enough that Erik would not be able to reach him, but he was locked onto the mad man's eyes as the lantern light penetrated the darkness. Curious … it was difficult to see the pupil's response in the dark brown pool of his right eye, but he was watching for it this time. Comparing the two eyes locked on him with a clearly sinister intent, he thought back to yesterday. How very odd, today the right eye's reaction appeared to be suppressed. Wasn't it the left one yesterday? Yes! It had been the blue eye showing a marked decrease in reaction. Why was it different today? He was upright today, instead of lying on the floor … on his … left side. Now he was leaning to the right, resulting in an opposite reflex depression. Well now, that absolutely was worth noting.

Starting in a broken breath, a bout of laughter shook Erik before his eyes fell to the floor. The arm he had been pointing with dropped beneath him, propping him up as he leaned against the wall spouting off a rather lengthy stream in Persian.

"Well." Nadir raised an eyebrow. "That was quite a colorful epitaph he just muttered for you."

"Epitaphs are for the deceased."

"He intends to reduce you to that state momentarily." He shook his head. "Doctor Wright, please don't step any closer."

Erik glared up between strands of his unkempt hair. His fingers convulsed against the floor as he leaned on them heavily. The malformed lip curled up in a malevolent snarl as a peel of laughter broke forth.

Disturbingly, Wright noted there was no mirth in that singular sound. "I need him to speak so I can understand him."

With a sigh, Nadir firmly called out the phrase.

Erik's body grew rigid, his eyes shutting tightly as he lowered his head. The silence stretched on for a moment before he raised it again, still tilted off the right side. His narrowed eyes flicked away from the lantern light. "Does the victim not understand where he is? Does he think a little flicker of light can defeat the Angel of Doom?" With a shudder that racked his whole body, Erik erupted into a fit of mad laughter.

Wright tapped his walking stick on the ground. Each time the metal hit the stone he watched the tension in Erik's body flare in response. "I know very little of this … Angel of Doom. Please, enlighten me."

Wrinkling his brow, Nadir leaned forward. "What the hell do you think you are doing?"

Whispering back, he replied, "Playing along."

Slightly uncoiling his trembling limbs, Erik leaned heavily against the wall. His fingers latched onto the edge of the bolt that fastened one of his chains. The low laughter continued as he pulled himself into a crouching posture more akin to upright. "Cloaked in darkness, wreathed in the hatred of men … the Angel of Doom sweeps out of the shadows stealing the breath of those who deserve to die."

Creeping in a wide circle, Wright shifted his eyes all over the surface of his patient. "And who deserves to die?"

Erik cracked a devilish grin, his hand edged out dragging the chain with it. Raising it, he clawed the air as though seizing something. " … everyone … " If there was any other word, the insidious laughter dissolved it.

"And you, you are this Angel of Doom?"

With a jerking nod, Erik pulled himself up a little straighter. "Yes," he hissed, "I am he. The crafter of the most hideous of deaths! The Dark Master himself has whispered his precious secrets into my ears." Shivering, he lowered his head, the hand clawing at the hair on his forehead. "None shall survive my wrath … none shall survive … no one is worthy … " Once more chilling laughter cut off any further communication.

Wright swallowed, trying to banish the growing sense of fear in the presence of this tormented man. He had to keep his wits about him … not become disturbed by his rantings. Now, what else did he need to assess? Oh yes.

"And what should frighten a man more than to have the Angel of Doom stand before him." Leaning back, Wright arched his eyebrows, waiting. According to the Persian behind his back, Erik had been an exceptionally proud individual, something that he could now use to manipulate him if even part of his original personality remained.

The blazing eyes turned up to him in cold assessment. "Not enough to simply enter his pit." He whispered, the fingers convulsing on the chain link they still absently embraced. "You impudent wretch, you desire to grovel and scrape under the weight of my punishing gaze?"

From his vantage point, Nadir shifted uncomfortably on his crutches. "Doctor, have your gone stark raving mad?"

Wright did not look away from Erik as he replied. "When is the last time you saw him stand?"

Blinking, Nadir had to consider it for a moment. "Maybe … about a month back … I guess we considered it a blessing that he wasn't using the advantage of his height. Don't remind him that he can!"

Shaking his head, Wright pointed with his cane. "I don't think he actually can stand up anymore."

Erik scowled, baring his teeth as he snapped, "You doubt my power? You doubt my awesome strength! How dare you mock me!" Tension flared in his limbs as the anger pulsed through. Rocking forward and backward he still clung to the bolt in the wall. He did not readily rise, the motions were intermittent jerks amounting to nothing as he breathed harshly. "You shall see! You shall pay for your insult!"

His bare-feet jerked underneath him in a series of hardly coordinated motions. Wright watched as Erik's hand enclosing the chain dragged his body from the floor. Thin limbs shuddered as the wasted muscles engaged under the weight. The knees had almost straightened when quite suddenly the tension gave out. Erik crumpled to floor, catching himself as he slid down the wall, landing in a hysterical laughing fit. His hands shot up gripping and clawing at the forelock of hair.

Wright stiffened. "Did you see that?"

"You were correct." Nadir snuffed, shifting his pained gaze down to his leg. "So he can't stand, doesn't mean he can't grab someone."

"No no!" Wright shook his head, pointing with his cane. "That's not all there is! Didn't you see? Didn't you see it?"

"I saw him fall, yes."

Exhaling a quick breath, he turned back to Erik. "Is that it? Is that all you can manage? You are no Angel of Doom, you're barely a shuffling wraith!"

That got Erik's attention. His body froze, exhibiting no more than a series of intermittent trembles before his malevolent gaze shifted up at the doctor. Snarling like a rabid beast, Erik surged to his feet only to be dumped back onto the floor on his hands and knees. Huddled there, his hands grasped the hair and yanked hard.

"There!" Wright pointed. "Did you see it this time? That is not from lack of balance or muscle tone! Although I am certain being chained down here has hardly helped, heavens no. It was like an electrical switch being cut. The current suddenly stopped, the muscles couldn't function! Hah! It's more pronounced in the lower limbs. His arms were doing most of the work."

Nadir threw the doctor a glare at his momentary celebration. On the floor Erik was tensing at every joyous shout from the man.

"Now the biggest question … locating the problem. I have an idea." Wright took another step closer. Gripping his cane he hovered it above the ground, pointing the end toward the patient. "Erik." He said sharply.

The moment Erik raised his head, Wright moved the tip of his cane straight into the center of his unprotected forehead. Not in a hard strike, it was little more than the pressure one might use to tap someone on the shoulder to get their attention.

Instantly, Erik recoiled. Inhaling sharply, he brought a shackled hand up, blindly swatting the cane away. In an explosion of fury, he surged to the end of the chains, falling upon his knees with his arms thrust back by the restraint of the chains. Consumed in the fit, he screamed out a string of vile words that were English, but so distorted as to be indistinguishable.

Both men stared slack-jawed as they watched, helpless to intervene. It was a full minute before Erik slumped backwards into the chains, the strength of his fury abandoning him and leaving him gasping on the floor, barely able to lift his head.

"How hard did you hit him?" Nadir finally found his voice.

Taking a quick glance at the end of the cane, Wright replied. "There was hardly any pressure at all. Just a slight tap."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Wait a moment … I want to try something else." Edging around to the side, Wright once more held up his cane. To Nadir's horror, he watched as the doctor tapped against the base of Erik's skull with the same motion as before.

Erik stirred. Shrinking back, he glared up at the doctor like a feral dog. A muttered oath escaped his lips, but nothing more than that.

"Interesting." Wright's steps carried him back around, once more to the front.

The mismatched eyes warily watched his every move. A quiet bout of laughter escaping his lips as he rolled back onto his knees wrapping his arms around his body.

Swiftly Wright raised the cane.

"Wait! Stop!" Nadir shrieked.

But he was not fast enough to warn the doctor. The cane did not make it through Erik's waiting guard. Snatching the shaft in his long fingers, Erik and Wright were now locked in a struggle for control. The only advantage the doctor had was a firm grip on the handle. Erik's fingers slid along the polished shaft. Pulling and tugging Wright managed to raise the angle of the cane higher, shifting his weight forward he pushed the tip towards Erik, who was unprepared to resist the altered direction. The tip came into contact with his forehead.

Releasing the cane, Erik screamed as he scrambled back, a moment before a fit of fury seized him! Once more, reduced to a state of raving lunacy he came to the end of the chains, his face contorted in the throes of pure insanity before he was unceremoniously dumped on the floor in a fit of convulsive laughter.

Climbing into a crouch from where he had fallen backward, Wright's expression grew grave. "My God," he whispered. "Erik … you poor, poor man. How long has this been plaguing you? It's no wonder why you have no control left."

Nadir could hardly move, a mixture of fear and anger thrumming in his veins. "What have you done to him?"

On the floor, Erik's shaking limbs carried him in a shambling crawl towards the wall. He curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, consumed with shuddering laughter while clawing at his hair in obvious misery.

Wright fought to suppress a tremble in himself as he slowly stood, casting a somber expression over the figure imprisoned in the shadows. "I've just discovered what is wrong with your friend … we need to go now. I must talk with his wife."

* * *

A warm fire in the hearth banished the physical chill from the study. Nothing could banish the cold dread growing within Wright as he sat on the sofa, trying to find the words to explain what he had observed. Their eyes stared at him … the concerned gaze of the man's wife and the accusatory glare of that old Persian. Brushing a smudge of dirt from his pants, he stole another glance at Nadir hovering on his crutches like a vulture.

Seeking refuge in his lap, Wright massaged his temples. "I have now observed Erik Daae— "

"It's just Erik." Nadir snapped irritably. "He does not have a surname."

Glancing up, Wright muttered, "That's rather odd … who doesn't have a surname?"

"Technically I do not have one either," he curtly replied. "It is far from the only odd thing you may learn about him."

Shifting in her seat Christine held up a hand beckoning Nadir to her side. Throwing Wright a heated glare as he passed by, Nadir hobbled over to stand beside her, too restless to join her on the couch.

"My apologies for the assumption, let me begin again." He took in a deep breath and let it slowly drain out. "I have observed in Erik several disturbing tendencies in my interactions with him."

"Have you no mercy, Doctor?" Nadir interjected, his low voice cracking with anger. "What you did to him amounted to torture! For as difficult as he can be right now he did not deserve that! What did you think you were doing down there?"

The forcefulness of the words pushed him back into the sofa. He had to swallow deeply as he tried to muster a reply. "Sometimes witnessing a diagnostic procedure can be unsettling."

"Unsettling?" Nadir scowled. "Unsettling is not the word I would use! His condition is dire enough without you poking at him with a cane!"

Her eyes widened as she turned her horrified gaze up to Nadir. Jaw muscles moved but no words came out.

With a hobbled step toward the doctor, Nadir added, "Not just once, but repeatedly you subjected him to that degradation! And yet you claimed to have figured out what is wrong? How dare you, Charlatan!"

Wright sat back, flabbergasted. "I do know what is wrong with him! Listen to me! Please! We may not have much time left."

Nadir dashed into silence as Christine's hand locked over his. "Doctor Wright … what do you mean … is he dying?"

Leaning forward, he clasped his hands. "Your husband is suffering from marked increase in cranial pressure."

Blank stares greeted his words.

Wringing his fingers, he closed his eyes. "There is a growth within his skull pressing against his brain. The increased pressure that is the result, has triggered a cascade of effects. Unless the tumor is removed … yes, I do believe it will kill him."

Christine ceased to breath for a long moment, shocked eyes staring through him as his words began to sink in. He noted even the rigid Nadir shifted visibly. Very gradually, without much thought, the man edged himself onto the couch beside Christine. His olive-toned skin paled considerably.

"How … how do you know that?" she asked distantly.

Wright held up his fingers ticking off the indications that spoke loud and clear to him. "Light sensitivity and sound sensitivity, tremors signifying nerve impulse problems, the inability to stand due to the impulse being cut short, relative shift in pupil light response due to head positioning, the pressed out position of his eyes, history of seizures and I would assume headaches as well." Her slow nod confirmed that previously un-noted symptom. "Memory issues, personality shift, uncontrolled and improper emotional responses — that is most markedly the laughing fits. I believe that to not be a simple loss of control, I believe that is a sign of misfiring neurons. He's not laughing, he's crying out in agony. It's just not coming out right the majority of the time."

The knuckles on her fingers turned white as the color left Christine's face. "You mean … you mean to tell me Erik is in pain?" Slowly, very slowly the reality was hitting her.

Wright bowed his head. "This is not something that just occurred suddenly. He would have been in a great deal of pain. As the tumor grew, the surrounding bone left nowhere for the increased pressure to go … but against the brain. Once there was enough pressure to produce the full blown psychosis, the pain must have been blinding. Likely, he is still feeling it. He just lacks the correct pathways for proper expression."

Uncomfortably, Nadir shifted his gaze to various points of the room, lost in thought. "But why the reversion? Why is he convinced he is back in Persia?"

"We're seeing the sections of the brain that have not been subjected to the crushing pressure sufficient enough to impede the nerve impulses. Essentially, it is the only sections that have not been choked off. The memory pathways can't reach the rest of his life experiences at this time." He shrugged. "If I can remove the tumor and relieve the pressure there is a chance the freed pathways will be restored once the swelling is reduced. That is no guarantee. However, if left as he is, the pressure will undoubtedly continue to build until it cuts off a vital signal. I can tell you this much, the growth is situated somewhere in the vicinity of the frontal lobes, eh … in laymen terms his forehead. When I noticed how often he was grabbing at the hair on his forehead, it was my first clue. I was not being cruel when I poked him to elicit a response, I was trying to get an idea of where this culprit was situated. Normally I would have used my fingers. The resulting acute hysteria came from the sudden increase in pressure in the vicinity of the most impacted tissues."

Shaking her head, Christine pushed to the edge of the couch cushion. "If you are certain, we must proceed right away!"

He held his hands out. "I must warn you. There is a very real chance the procedure alone could kill him. Erik is not a young man, and his advanced age, as well as the unfortunate recent conditions he has been confined in, will complicate the recovery. Even with the optimal circumstances, the recovery from these sorts of procedures is long and grueling. There is a chance he could be restored to the man you once knew before this ailment. He may also only regain a portion of his former self … or, he may never wake again. That is the chance we are faced with."

Rising to her feet, she declared, "Without trying, he will most certainly die. Doctor, there is no question in my mind. When can you perform the surgery?"

"Christine! We need to thi — "

"Silence Nadir! If there is a chance of getting Erik back, we will take it!"

Rubbing his mustache, Wright offered a shrug. "With his psychosis it will be difficult transporting him to a hospital where the procedure can be done."

"You will do the procedure here." Drawing herself up to her full height, she insisted. "He's not leaving this mansion."

Taken aback, Wright's jaw dropped. "Madame Daae … this is brain surgery!"

"I understand that," she declared. "You fail to understand my husband. If he should wake in anything resembling an asylum following this procedure, you will have a whole nother set of problems on you hands. Hardly anyone is aware of what has befallen my husband. And I will not have his reputation dismantled because someone's prying eyes have glimpsed his face. Do you understand me now? He is not leaving his home. You can perform the procedure here."

Glancing around the study, rubbing his mustache, he muttered. "This is a nice place, but there is no way to conduct the procedure here in a simple home."

"There is." Christine extended a hand, bidding him to rise. "We will take you the western wing, parts of the second floor have been converted under the previous efforts to treat Erik. We already have most of what you may require. Any staff you arrange for are to be sworn to secrecy. They will live in the temporary apartments within the west wing and must use the servant's entrance with all evidence of their purpose concealed from view. I repeat, I have fought very hard to keep any word of his condition from escaping this house!"

He stood before her, chastened by her conviction. With a slight bow of his head he assented. Well, he liked a challenge, and this was going to be one! "Show me what you already have. I will send out a telegraph this afternoon making arrangements for staff and any equipment I may need. It is my hope we can proceed … perhaps the day after tomorrow."

"Follow me, it is all on this floor."

* * *

The chains rattled in the darkness. The blessed darkness. Pain and darkness … his constant companions. It was all more bearable without the light, the punishing light! Erik leaned heavily against the wall, his fingers wrapped around the chain as his hand feebly beat it against the wall. Beneath the grip of each iron shackle the flesh had been rubbed raw. A sting he would have felt had it not been for the fire.

Fires burned everywhere, little vibrant fires flickering to life in his limbs before dying into embers. The muscles carried out the convulsions driven to respond to the rogue sensations, an endless plague in a restless body. Closing his eyes tightly, he heard his voice muttering, echoing in the dark cavity. The words he knew at one time must have meant something … now they were just sounds, sounds that echoed and pushed him further into confusion. Recalling anything was impossible. Was that even his own voice?

A jolt of white hot pain blinded him like lightning. Arching back his head, he heard the laughter bouncing off the walls. The sound in his ears triggered more tension flaring in his limbs, increasing the laughter he could never hope to control. It was a never ending cycle, feeding into itself … sometimes driven to an intense throbbing crescendo.

Shuddering against the wall, Erik tried to brace himself. The lightning, there was something about the lightning … something bad always followed the lightning, but there wasn't enough left after the pain to contemplate what that was. Consciousness was fleeting, almost nonexistent. Memories dashed away into the darkness before even a chance to cling to them. It was only the present, the agonizing white hot pain of the present.

Clamping his hands around his head, his body tried to push it back, tried to quiet the storm it had forgotten how to fight. His lips muttered on their own, a torrent of syllables coming faster and faster.

The surge hit him like a paralyzing blow. He lost complete control of every fiber in his body. Writhing on the floor, twitching with the spasms as his breath was forced from his body, Erik descended on the long downward spiral into the only respite from the constant burning fires of his perpetual hell … the unconscious embrace that followed a seizure.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

Descending into the cellar, Doctor Wright held the small bottle and the syringe in his hands. He was sweating even though the temperature had dropped on each floor. Everything was ready in the second floor wing. He had been shocked to learn two short days ago that this mansion had been the result of a rather overzealous architectural hand. The primary wing the master of the house had chosen to occupy was the eastern wing. The other half of the mansion had apparently been left dressed, but largely unused, as even his imagination struggled to come up with uses for the excess space. There was use for it now. Up in what was effectively a surgical room, the four nurses he had acquired from Massachusetts General Hospital were finishing the sterilization of his surgical tools. By the time he and the four burly orderlies he had borrowed from the psychological ward had the patient sedated and hauled up to the room he should be able to proceed without delay.

He fingered the metal syringe, now warm to the touch from his sweaty hand. How were they going to do this? Even with the men descending the stairs behind him fully informed of what they were about to wrestle to the ground, he found his heart skipping beats at the thought of one of those heavy shackles hitting him in an act of demented fury.

"You all know what to do," he called over his shoulder for the third time. "The Persian will met us outside the door. Once it is unlocked, seize him right away, don't give him a chance to strike you. All I need is a limb pinned enough to inject him. Don't let go until I tell you."

There was no reply from the orderlies, only a roll of one set of eyes. The majority of their patients were combative and uncooperative, this sort of thing was part of their daily routines.

In the corridor, Nadir leaned on his crutches. The lock on the door already sprung, he was tapping the set of keys on his left hip impatiently. "You're sure you're ready for him?"

"Yes." Wright braced himself, putting on an air of calm he did not truly feel. "Please tell me you didn't feed him this morning."

He shook his head. "The door has not opened since early last night. I followed your instructions. It's been over twelve hours since his last meal which means he'll be furious."

Pulling out the small bottle of fluid he nodded quickly. "Good. Good. We don't want the chance of anything in his stomach during the procedure." He pointed to two of the men. "The door pushes in. Are we ready?"

Nadir hobbled out of the way, back against the wall of the corridor. They wouldn't need the keys for the shackles until after Erik was rendered unconscious. What did he dare hope? That this was the last need for the wretched lock that weighed heavy in his fingers? No more violent threats, no more making certain what remained of his once friend was unable to escape his forced prison? It had been a long exhausting year of this degradation. This dangerous game trying desperately not to hurt Erik while his raging made him intent upon killing everyone who got too close. He had prayed constantly to Allah for an end … but as he watched the hands press upon the door, he felt his breath falter in his chest. Not that end, don't let this be the last goodbye. Lowering his eyes, he knew as much as he hated the daily tasks of this last year … he would have endured for however long Erik managed to breathe. Even for his own safety, he could never have by conscience abandoned him.

The door swung open … to an eerie silence. Wright had expected to hear the familiar sound of the scraping, the links of chain moving in the darkness as the pale light infiltrated. This time there was nothing, not even the rattle from the trembling limbs. The orderlies waited upon a signal from the doctor that did not come. Slowly, Wright moved into the doorway following the rays of the lantern as he edged into the stillness, prepared for the chance that Erik was playing some game of deception in his ire for being starved.

The light cast over his prone body. Wright swallowed, not certain what to do. Hadn't Nadir warned him Erik would sometimes lie in wait, drawing a victim closer? Was he doing this now?

Frantically, the doctor shifted his eyes over the sight before him. Erik lay slightly cocked on his right hip, his limbs splayed in no general sensible array. He was breathing, slow and steady … in fact more so than he remembered before. His body was so still. Too still. There was a near complete absence of the rogue twitches that had plagued him even when he had frozen in anger before. His condition was so severe that it would have been impossible for him to have quelled the involuntary spasms. That meant something else had!

Creeping ever closer, Wright leaned over Erik. Reaching down he touched a slackened hand. The response was extremely faint. The sheen of fluid caught his eyes, a puddle of urine on the floor that was still close to body temperature. Taking up the wrist, he felt a strong pulse.

Discarding the syringe back into his pocket, Wright reached back. "Give me the keys! Hurry!"

With a start, Nadir pushed his way into the room on his crutches. His eyes widened, his hand still clutching the key ring. "What … what's wrong?" He spied the bottle still in the doctor's hand. His alarmed voice cracked, "Why haven't you sedated him?"

"Give me the keys to his shackles!" Wright shook his open hand in the air. "He's in a postictal sleep. Damn it, the man had a seizure not too long ago. For the time being his muscles cannot react. There is no need for sedation if we can get him upstairs before the phase passes! Now give me the keys!"

Staring dumbly, Nadir couldn't move at the sight before him. Erik … was still!

"The keys!" Wright implored. An orderly snatched the key ring and handed it to the doctor. The first one he tried didn't fit, the second was the correct one for Erik's wrist. The lock sprung open and the hinged iron ring slid free exposing the chaffed flesh beneath. There was no response as the released limb fell to the floor unimpeded. Racing against an unknown clock, Wright rammed the key into each of the locks, the chains falling away from the slack limbs, leaving behind the telltale marks of their once firm grasp.

"Get him upstairs!" Wright demanded. "Hurry! If he wakes up before we get him under the anesthesia, we may have a fight on our hands. I do not want that for his sake!"

Wordlessly, one of the orderlies reached down and scooped an arm under Erik's neck, another under his knees. As he stood, Erik's head fell back under the weight of gravity. There was no resistance, the only sign of life was the steady rise and fall of his sadly visible ribs. As quickly as he could without jarring the patient, the orderly turned for the door following one of the men. In a cautious train the other two brought up the rear just in case consciousness should resume. They were ready.

Rising to his feet, Wright handed the iron key ring to Nadir before hastily turning to the door.

Seizing the ring with numbed fingers, a tear rolled down Nadir's cheek. "Don't let him die … please! Please give him back his life."

Wright paused, his hand on the door frame. "I will do everything I can." All that ran through his mind as he dashed up the flights of stairs toward the prepared room was a dire wish that Erik not wake up somewhere in-between the cellar and the surgery room.

Rounding the corner into the crowded room, he spied the four nurses, each one in a stage of shock as they looked upon the patient the orderlies were in the midst of strapping down upon the table.

One of the nurses was still moving, her eyes stole glances at the strange sight, but she wheeled over the anesthesia cart with its chloroform bottle. Rosalind Foster checked the rubber tubing between the inhaler mask and the top of the bottle to be certain it was secure. She had heard one of the orderlies snapping that they needed to hurry and get him under as quick as possible. They had been briefed on the condition of this unusual patient and what had made the location of this procedure necessary. Her first glance as he was carried around the corner was a rude shock. But now was not the time for emotions, now was the time to fulfill her duties. The patient was filthy from his confinement. Orders were once he was under the anesthesia to get him cleaned up quickly while Doctor Wright scrubbed up. Glancing again, she shook her head, _quickly_ was going to be a challenge.

Wright clapped his hands, startling the three gawking nurses into activity. "Let's get moving! I want him secured, fully under, cleaned and prepped. The patient had a seizure, let's get that mask on him before he comes fully out of it."

The last of the thick leather straps cinched into place over Erik's chest. Their main task completed, the orderlies backed away from the table, waiting in case there was a need.

A low moan escaped Erik, his head rolled slightly to the side. Rosalind picked up the mask and lowered it into place, she was about to secure the strap that would hold it in position when Erik's eyes shot open. Startled by the motion, she took a sudden step back.

On the table, Erik's instincts took over. The strange device over his mouth and what was considered his nose registered enough of a threat that he held his breath. Writhing, he tried to slide out of the restraints.

Wright and one of the orderlies moved in. Pushing the mask down harder, he sealed in the powerful fumes. "You have to breathe sometime! Come on, Erik. Take a breath!"

The fire in Erik's eyes blazed as he met the doctor's glare. But not even Erik could hold his breath for very long, especially not now with the involuntary twitches building. A spike hit his abdominal muscles, air entered his lungs filled with the fumes from the bottle. In an instant, Erik's eyes began to roll back, hit with the effects of the first breath. The tension abated as the second breath inevitably followed, the ability to resist stripping away. By the third breath, his eyes had shut again and he lay limp upon the table.

Wright held onto a wrist, feeling the pulse and muttering, "Slow down, the pulse is still racing too high. Come down... come down … he's not under yet. Wait, there it goes. Slower, slower … there it is! Settled nice and deep." Releasing the wrist he snapped his fingers. "Let's get him prepped right away! Remember, cleanliness is everything! I want that surgical site completely cleansed. I will not have a secondary infection destroy the results of a flawless surgery."

Removing his jacket, he put on the rubber surgical apron. Rolling up his sleeves, he turned to the several basins set up in a row to ensure his greatest instruments were prepared for the surgery. His hands. The nimble fingers of a surgeon were always the determining factor of a success. Yes, the other tools were essential, but the hands controlled everything! Too many of his colleagues had conducted grueling surgeries with excellent results only to have the patients succumb to an infection days later. He had been an avid follower of Lister. After adapting numerous pieces from the man's research, Wright had discovered his surgical success rate significantly increased.

While dipping his arms into the iodine basin up to his elbows, Wright asked over his shoulder. "How is the pulse?"

"Stable and strong," Rosalind replied. "Concentrating on his face, he's been cleaned and the head immobilized in the head clamp. We can get the rest post operation. Everything is ready for you."

Holding his hands high so as not to contact anything, he approached the patient, glancing around to make sure that everything truly was set. His tools were all laid out on a cart near one of the nurses. A hand-pumped siphon accompanied by various empty bottles stood waiting with another nurse prepared to run it. Beside a large stack of boiled and dried linen with the accompanying various bottles of medications, a third nurse clasped her hands before her. At the head of the table, Rosalind Foster stood with her fingers pressed gently against the patient's wrist. Her eyes watching as his chest rose and fell. There was a reason Wright had requested her skilled hands from the burn unit. This nurse had a reputation for pushing through some of the worst procedures the hospital had seen. She was living up to that reputation.

With the head secured in place by the clamp suspended in a large open wooden frame, Wright had the perfect angle to perform the delicate procedure. Taking position, he took a deep breath. "Scalpel." Carefully, he made an incision about two inches long across Erik's forehead. The skin flap as he folded it back felt strange in his hands, there was such a limited amount of elasticity. At least he discovered a healthy blood supply. That was one potential problem avoided!

"Drill."A moment later, the hand drill appeared before him. The gleaming, twisted bit shimmered as he lowered it into position on the bone just off the center of Erik's forehead. "A little more light, please." A moment later, the light began to brighten as the gas flow to the sconces increased.

Pushing down lightly, Wright turned the drill, pressing carefully into the bone. Slowly it bore in before at last the resistance yielded. Withdrawing the instrument he was rewarded with a slow ooze of clear fluid. There was no doubt the pressure had been high inside the skull. Working the hand pump, the nurse cleared away the fluid as Wright bore three more small holes in a circular pattern roughly an inch and a half apart. Each time he withdrew the drill a small trickle followed.

"Pulse?" He called out without looking up as he handed the drill aside.

"Steady." Rosalind replied.

So far, so good. Now came the most critical part. "Chisel and mallet."

Carefully, he angled the chisel with the tip between two of the holes. Taking a deep breath, he held the mallet in a steady hand bringing it down into the back of the chisel with a precise strike. The bone between the holes cleaved neatly … but a little too easily.

Wright backed the chisel away, wrinkling his brow at the exposed bone. "That's strange. I expected to need a little more force." Well, bone depth could vary from patient to patient. He'd just need to be really careful with the other three strikes.

With extreme care, he placed the chisel in-between each of the hole sets until at last the final bridge cleaved leaving a disc of bone about an inch and half in diameter. He hoped it was in the right place! With the forceps, he gently seized the edge of the disc. Taking a deep breath in and out … the moment of truth. Time to see what lies beneath.

* * *

Raising the flask to his lips without thinking, Wright felt the burn of the whiskey down his throat. Leaning forward on the chair, he rested his bare elbows in his knees, the shirt sleeves still rolled back from earlier. His eyes still burned a bit, dry from having been open too long. God, he was tired. The after effects of adrenaline.

His eyes drifted wearily to the jar filled with formaldehyde sitting on the bedside table. There it was, preserved in the fluid. The thing had been encapsulated, fortunately, making the removal easier. Every indication showed the conker sized growth was benign, unlikely to return. Somehow Wright had gotten damn lucky! When he had lifted out the piece of bone the tumor lurked directly beneath it, pushing up right against the bone. The hardest part was sliding it out from between the two hemispheres, where the back edge had wedged itself. He had almost needed to make the hole larger. It was a huge risk going for the smaller hole. But given Erik's physical condition, the risk of opening the entire skull became an even greater one. He had hedged a bet that his assessment had narrowed down the region, and he had been far luckier than he would ever admit aloud!

Lifting up the jar, he stared at the folded mass of white cells. Oh how much trouble these little rogues had caused. But now, now they would do nothing more than be held in stasis for medical curiosity. Setting it back on the table, his eyes drifted to the patient lying in the sickroom bed. For now the curtains were drawn back, admitting the sunlight. That would change when he regained consciousness. For sometime the eyes would remain extremely sensitive to light.

Erik lay on his back, the entire top of his head wrapped in a thick layering of linen. The bandaging stopped just above his eyelids which were already bruised and swollen, the only coloring to his sickly white pallor. His chest rose and dropped with each breath. The automatic reflex was uninhibited by any sign of tremor or pain, he was still blessedly in a coma.

Taking another sip of the whiskey, Wright sighed. He knew what was happening beneath those bandages, that was why he had inserted a drainage tube. That would need to come out in a few days. A good time to assess how that unusual skin would be healing. He hoped that it would heal. Another potential complication.

The door opened and shut. Rosalind quietly approached him. "Doctor Wright … they've been asking for the last hour, they want to come in."

Closing his eyes, he slowly capped the flask and tucked it away in the jacket flung across the back of the chair. "I was waiting to make sure things were really stable … but I suppose since there hasn't been much of a change in the last few hours … you can let them in. Remind them to be quiet."

She slipped out briefly, returning with Christine and Nadir behind her.

Christine immediately pushed past her, hastily coming to the bedside. Her hands reached out before she remembered that she couldn't touch him yet. Wordlessly, her eyes studied his still figure under the blanket. It had been so long since she had seen him truly quiet. Resting.

Meekly, she turned to the silent doctor. "He made it through."

Wright nodded, his eyes idly observing the jar again. "That was the largest brain tumor I have removed to date. Fortunately, it was in a good location. The prognosis, as long as there is no sepsis, is good." He glanced up to see her smiling down upon him. He hated the next words, but she had to know. "This will sound cruel … but pray that your husband remains in a coma for the next few days. It will be easier if he doesn't wake to the tissues swelling to fill the void. We can only do so much for the pain management."

The smile faded from Christine's face, worry took it's place as Nadir finally caught up behind her. His own eyes grew grave at the site of his unconscious friend. Cast in the harsh light of the sun, the truth of Erik's frail condition was undeniable. He remembered, years ago when he had forced Erik to abandon his opium addiction, how badly he had wasted away under the strains of the withdrawal. That had been bad, but now … how had he even managed to move in those heavy chains?

Wright continued with a glance at the Persian. "Considering the history of opium and morphine abuse you told me of, it severely limits what I can give him for the pain. We will administer it as often and as high as we safely can which will have some sedating effect … but if he wakes too soon there will be a period of time where he will be … well, aware of the swelling. It will abate, but that will take time. Until then, we will not know how much he has truly lost."

Christine hovered her hand just above Erik's. She wanted to caress his fingers … just feel a little warmth. Let him know someone was there, waiting for him. A hand on her shoulder reminded her of the words the nurse had conveyed before they entered. She turned to find Nadir there. His heavy eyes were locked upon the bandages wrapping Erik's wrists. Wide strips of linen concealing the raw flesh the shackles had left behind.

"Madame, as much as I know you desire to be with your husband, I do not suggest lingering here if he wakes. What you will witness may be unsettling at first." Pushing up from the chair, Wright stretched before stumbling toward the door with the jar. "Now, if you will excuse me. I need to get some rest."

She reached a hand out to the leaving doctor's back, but no words came out of her stunned mouth. Once the door closed, she stood awash in confusion.

Rosalind came over and gently guided her into the vacant chair. "Surgeons," she muttered. "Gifted hands, but no gift when it comes to the tongue. Don't you worry. Wright is a fantastic surgeon, but his bedside manner is about as soothing as running through a field of stinging nettles."

Glancing up in surprise into the warm smile from the nurse, Christine was speechless.

"Now, you just let me know if you need anything dear. There's not much I need to do for your husband at the moment." She glanced up at Nadir before drifting off behind him, dragging a chair forward. "Here, you look like you need this more than it needs to be in the corner."

"Thank you … uhh … nurse?" Nadir struggled with what to call her.

"Foster." She smiled with a neat little bow. "You can call me Rosalind if you like. I don't mind."

"He … his eyes, they're so bruised." Christine hovered her hand in the air, once more her fingers yearning to touch him.

With a nod, Rosalind picked up a small bowl and slipped around the other side of the bed. "That is normal, and something that Doctor Wright probably forgot to mention. That will fade gradually over the next weeks. Don't worry." Glancing across the bed she noted the yearning hand with a sly grin. What harm would it do? Everything was well covered.

Taking the teaspoon in her hand, Rosalind dipped it into the bowl. The thin broth trickled into Erik's open mouth. Massaging his throat, she watched the reflexive swallow. "Good, that still works. Should make this easier."

Both Nadir and Christine watched curiously as she patiently administered the fluids into him, one spoonful at a time.

Rosalind set the bowl aside after a short while. "Let that sit for a bit. Poor dear. He's going to need a lot more fluids in him if he's going to heal properly." She glanced down at another fluid level within a clear glass jar on the floor, tucked just beneath the bed. A rubber tube fed into it, flowing from beneath the covers. For now it was much better not to shift a patient for those … natural functions. The system meant no struggle for a chamber pot that an unconscious patient could hardly ask for in the first place.

Curiously, Christine watched as Rosalind reached forward with a towel, gently wiping away any remaining broth from Erik's face. The nurse touched his deformity without so much as a flinch. She stared in wonder so long she found the nurse observing her quietly.

"Something I can help you with, dear?" Rosalind set the towel aside. "You look as though you have a question."

"I uhh … it's just … " How to even ask! "It doesn't bother you?"

She laughed quietly. "Good heavens, no. I've seen much worse than this. After you have dressed as many burn wound patients as I have, a birth deformity of this manner is only a passing shock." Shrugging, she drifted about the room putting away a few supplies. "Society can be so incredibly intolerant. When I think of those poor children who manage to survive a house fire, scarred for life. And the families, ungratefully shut them away in a house as, how did that couple put it last year in front of the child? Oh yes, _unfit for viewing_. Poor little dear. I wanted to take her home with me instead."

Her fingers embraced Erik's frail hand, the thumb brushing it in a small circle. Christine remembered the nights by the fireside when Erik had hesitantly told her of how his widowed mother had kept him imprisoned within their home. All she could see was the deep sorrow that had dwelt in his eyes as he spoke of a childhood spent in yearning to see a world she had tried to bar him from. "You should have taken the poor child," Christine murmured. "It may have been better for her to have some compassion shown to her."

"I do believe there are laws against stealing children, Madame." She sighed. "Shame, there should laws against the way they treat … " Catching herself she looked to the ground. "Begging your pardon, it's not my place to say how others raise their children."

A faint smile flicked on Christine's lips as she glanced at her husband. "I'm sure Erik would agree with you."

Rosalind was about to reply when the sound of a soft snore filled the room. It wasn't coming from Erik … in the chair, Nadir's tucked chin rested on his chest. The poor weary man had fallen asleep. "Aww. Looks like he's had a rough time of things. What happened?"

With a long drawn out breath, Christine cast her eyes between the two men. "Nadir has been the only one who could get any form of cooperation from Erik. Unfortunately, it meant that several times a day he needed to enter the room … "

"Let me guess. There was a day not so long ago that things didn't reach an understanding."

She shook her head. "Erik tried to kill him with one of his chains. Poor Nadir. He's been shambling up and down the stairs on a broken leg, and the stitches haven't even come out yet."

"Stitches?" Rosalind cocked her head. "Oh my, that means the bone went through the skin, right?"

Looking away, she nodded stiffly. "It was a horrific sight. He's been struggling with it ever since. What the doctor gave him is hardly managing the pain."

"Well, that's because he shouldn't be on it much." The nurse eyed the splinted limb. "Remind me to take a peak under those bandages when he wakes. I know a few tricks that might help him. For one, no more stairs. Now, I'll be right back. Just going to go fetch some fresh broth from the kitchen. Do you want some tea when I come back?"

She nodded slowly, realizing that she hadn't eaten a thing since waking this morning from a restless night. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

So few times in this last year did she have the opportunity to touch him. So rarely had anything worked long enough to caress the man she loved. Her heart broke at the memories. Between her fingers, his winter white hand rested, still. Let it last this time … please God, let it last!


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

Rays of morning sunshine stretched into the quiet room. No one had pulled the drapes over the tall ornate windows. Like the rest of the mansion, this room also displayed a great deal of Erik's attention to detail. Carved borders framed each window in a decorative wrap. Tall columns set into the walls rose up from the floor to meet the carved ceiling. In dawn's first light there was a cheery ambiance to the room.

An ambiance that none of the inhabitants felt. All night Christine had sat in the bedside chair, her eyes afraid to close lest they open to learn this was a dream. Around midnight, Nadir had woken with a terrible ache from having fallen asleep in the chair. He had shuffled off to his bed and a large stack of pillows to elevate his leg. A mousy nurse had come to cover overnight without so much as introducing herself. Wide eyed and tentative, she did all that was essential, but nothing more.

The whole of the night, Erik had never moved beyond the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. It was discouraging, even with the doctor's warning. She kept imagining his eyes would open, he would smile and say her name. The whole nightmare would be over! In the darkness of the night, the illusion was conceivable … then the cruel sun rose, revealing the truth once more.

Rosalind pushed the door open and quietly shut it behind her. Her eyes quickly took in the scene that had hardly changed from last night. It was to be expected. There in the corner sat little Lucy just as pale as the first time she had laid eyes on him. It was a little sad to see that in a nurse. She was younger, but she would learn. Every nurse did … or they left the profession. A moment later, Molly entered the room with a bowl of broth from the kitchens. Oh good, so it looked as though Rosalind would have a less tentative set of hands to help with the bandage changes.

Molly set the bowl on the bedside table. Leaning over toward Lucy, she tossed a thumb to the door. "Night's over, Lassie. You can go on now, get some rest."

Shuddering a bit, Lucy slunk out of the chair. Shifting her eyes to Erik's exposed face she muttered aloud. "Good thing too, I'm scared to touch him lest I catch leprosy."

Three sets of eyes locked upon the unfortunate nurse. Molly dropped her jaw, completely stunned at the declaration. Across the room Rosalind froze, nearly dropping the bottle of iodoformogen powder she had just fetched from the cabinet. But it was Christine's coldly enraged voice that broke the silence. Indignantly rising to her feet, she stated, "My husband is **not** a leper!"

Lucy backed away, covering her mouth with her hands. Mortified that she muttered her fear aloud, she looked up to see Rosalind slam the bottle down on a table before crossing the room and taking her firmly by the wrist. "What were you thinking?" Her voice was a harsh whisper as she fought to keep the reprimand between the two of them. "You obviously have no idea what a leper looks like! There is nothing wrong with this man that is contagious! You can't catch a birth deformity."

Covering her face with her free hand, Lucy pulled back, trying to break loose. "What if Doctor Wright didn't tell us the truth … what if that's a lie."

Tensing, Christine began to cross the room towards the pair. Hastily Rosalind snapped, "If you ever say anything of the sort again and a doctor hears you, I assure you that will be the final day of your job as a nurse! Watch your tongue. Now go. We have no more need of you today."

Molly blew a stray strand of hair from her eyes as she intercepted Christine, allowing time for Lucy to dash out of the room. "That wee one needs a bit more experience … and a little more sleep. Now, don't you go listening to her. Just forget what she said."

Picking the bottle back up off the table, Rosalind shook her head. "Begging your pardon, Madame Daae. She is one of the younger ones, still afraid of stories she has heard. I see you've had a long night, did you sleep at all?"

The anger having abandoned her, wearily Christine shook her head.

With a grin, Molly pointed at the broth. "Was just down in the kitchen and my don't they have a lovely batch of warm biscuits down there. Why don't you go and have a bite to eat, dearie. We'll take care of shifting his bandages."

"But … but I want to stay." She replied almost dreamily. Too many hours sitting in the dark waiting and hoping.

Rosalind took her hand guiding her to the door. "Go on, you need to take care of yourself. He'll be here after you eat and get some rest yourself."

Closing the door behind Christine, Rosalind drew a hand across her forehead. "I can't believe Lucy blurted that out! She's lucky this didn't happen at the hospital."

Molly dropped her head into her hand. "Oh dearie me! She'd have been shoved out the door so swiftly that cobble stones would've scuffed her bum!" Glancing under the bed at the jar on the floor, Molly clicked her tongue. "Bless me, maybe she should be. Looks like she forgot to switch this out. It's almost full, that would make a right mess if it overflowed. I'll get a fresh jar and empty this one before we get started."

Collecting a good stack of fresh linen strips, Rosalind shook her head. "Alright. I'll get the broth in him first. No telling how well she did on that task. I didn't see an empty bowl."

Shifting about the room, before long the two nurses caught up on everything. Rosalind tucked the edge of the bandage on Erik's wrist in place before laying his arm on top of the blanket. "Looked good so far. No sign of infection anywhere." She glanced at the clock. "And too soon for his next dose."

Molly drifted to the cabinet, pulling out two bottles, codeine and lithium. They would need these soon enough with the pair of steel syringes she added to the tray before bringing it over. "Might as well be ready for when the time comes."

Sitting back, the nurses chatted quietly for quite some time in the room until a sound caught Rosalind's attention. A shift in the rhythm of breathing in the background. A soft whimper rose into the air. Turning in her chair she saw Erik's hand gripping the blanket, his eyes tight as he stirred in the bed.

"Oh no." She exhaled just above her breath. Hastily she came to the bedside. Reaching down, she gently took his hand in hers. "Easy, now. Shh, you're alright." Waving a hand to the drapes she called out, "Molly, dash the lights! Quick!"

In a flurry, Molly yanked every window dressing firmly into place, shuttering out the bright daylight. On her way she turned the flow down on the gas lamps, the room just barely had any light remaining.

Erik's swollen eyelids cracked open. His whimpered breathing intensified into a shuddering wail. Trembling, his hand rose from atop the covers in a jerky attempt to reach his head. It failed miserably, hanging locked in the air, shaking.

"Molly, go get Wright. He'll want to know."

There was no reply. Just the door opening and closing. Minutes passed by, Rosalind sat there, holding his hand and just watching as he cried out. Her eyes glared at the clock, it was too soon. Without Wright's approval she couldn't give him the injection.

Sliding into the room, Wright came straight to the bed, looking down with a furrowed brow. "Well, that is one pathway we know has been restored. He can clearly express pain now." He exhaled, "Damn it, I was hoping he wouldn't wake up this soon. How long til the next injection?"

"Over an hour," she replied, her eyes still fixed on Erik's panicked pupils just visible through the cracked lids trying desperately to quell his plaintive wailing. The sound reminded her eerily of a feverish baby that could not be consoled.

Wright cursed just under his breath. "He's not fully conscious yet. Just enough for his body to know something is wrong and complain about it." Grappling with himself he looked at the syringes on the table.

"Tell me what to do," demanded Rosalind with a quick glance up at the doctor.

"Where's his wife?" Rubbing his mustache he glanced around the room.

"We sent her to break her fast and get some rest a little while ago. God willing, she's actually following our advice. Looked as if she might faint from hunger and exhaustion. But it hardly matters who is present. What are we going to do for him?" She felt the trembling intensifying through the grip on her hand.

Wright shut his eyes, seizing one of the syringes he shook his head. "It's too soon. But we'll just have to hope this isn't too much. Just adjust the schedule accordingly." Dipping the needle into the codeine bottle he pulled back, filling the chamber to his satisfaction. "Hold his arm still for me."

Already holding Erik's hand, Rosalind gently extended his arm all the way out, pressing it against the bed. Wright poked through the skin, the needle delivering the codeine solution into Erik's muscle.

Gently, her fingers massaged the arm that already bore a few marks from previous injections. Gradually, Erik's cries diminished. His eyes closed once more as the drug carried him off into a deep sleep.

She sighed, untangling her fingers from his. He would sleep for hours, if he was lucky. Time would tell how long he would be conscious waiting for the next dose. Looking up, she discovered Wright had left the room, only Molly remained, sitting across from her with a grave expression on her face. These were the hard moments.

In the silence, Rosalind's eyes drifted down to the bandages on Erik's thin wrists. She shivered as she remembered the raw texture of the skin beneath.

"Poor soul. He just traded one prison for another. This one … the only key to freedom is the passage of time."

* * *

Outside the windows, the sky had darkened. Tiny pinpoints of light shown brightly in the heavens. It had been a very long day since the hastily scribbled letter had arrived at Carnegie Hall, hand delivered by a servant from _Clef de Voute Manoir_. Walter Damrosch had called a quick break during the rehearsal of the Symphony Society he was conducting. Retreating into his office, he had torn open the note deciphering the clipped sentences. There hadn't been enough time to let it all sink in, it was too much. The weight of the letter far too heavy. Folding it up, he'd tucked it deep into an internal pocket of his jacket before resuming the rehearsal. There had been no way to leave the hall without drawing attention to himself. That was the price of being the conductor of two major musical societies as well as organizing a large number of private lessons. Now, after the entire day's duties were completed and the Hall vacant, he was free to discreetly steal the two blocks up 7th avenue to be admitted into the nearby mansion.

Wensleydale, the butler, brought him to the second floor of the western wing. He remembered the first time, many years ago he had been shown about the entire mansion by its architect and owner. Andrew Carnegie and he had come to the main floor sitting room for a discussion over brandy with the esteemed architect of Shadowcrest Industries. They were interested in commissioning for the construction of the Music Hall. It had not been long before Erik had insisted upon their eyes seeing some of the more unique aspects of his home. So many years ago, he remembered standing in awe at the achievements of a man roughly twice his age whom he never once saw without a mask on.

Erik had been invaluable to the construction of the Hall, his comprehension of acoustics and their execution was unrivaled. At the time, Damrosch had not suspected why. It wasn't until the opening gala was approaching, when both he and Carnegie had quite the rude shock in learning how extraordinarily talented a musician and composer the architect was. For many years since, Erik had been woven into the fabric of what became Carnegie Hall … he had been appointed Director of the Arts by Carnegie himself. Through a requested audition, he earned the rank of concertmaster on his Stradivarius and sat that chair in the Symphony Society for many years … until …

Damrosch hung his head, running a hand through his hair as he fought the sting of the tears. Even after all this time he still wondered if perhaps he could have changed things … if he had said something to Christine the night of that distant January concert when he had found Erik trembling in his darkened office during the intermission. His chest tightened as he recalled how desperately Erik had begged him to keep the secret … against all sense, Damrosch respected his wishes. Now, he lived in regret as one of the few who had been privy to the truth of Erik's sudden disappearance. Christine had been telling everyone over the past year that the architect was touring Europe, looking for stone sources and visiting sites for inspiration in the very birthplaces of classical architecture. She made it sound like her husband was having the time of his life … only Damrosch saw the faint twinge in her eyes every time she told the story. It had been for his own sake, to protect his precious dignity in this society where prim and proper left no room for the ailing.

Waiting to be admitted into the sickroom, Damrosch shifted in the silent hallway. His hand absently pulled out his pocket watch, opening and shutting it without even looking. Erik was such a prankster. It used to annoy him to no end to reach into his pocket to find the watch missing. It would turn up sometime later at Erik's whim, either back in his pocket without explanation or in someone elses. Soon enough, Damrosch had become insatiably curious as to how his friend was managing to perform this feat countless times without him ever detecting it. He had begged him to reveal the secret, but had never managed to pry it out of him. Erik would always just grin at him beneath that white mask of his. Morosely, he put the watch away. It had been too long with his pocket watch behaving itself.

The door opened and a nurse waved him in. "Keep your voice down, please."

He nodded, entering the room behind her. The sconces were so low there was hardly a flicker of light. Every drape had been firmly tied shut over the windows. It was so dark he had to look down at the floor to make certain he didn't trip over something unseen.

Coming over to the bedside, he laid a hand on Christine's shoulder. Her muscles stiffened at his touch before she drifted weary eyes up to find him. "Walter." Grasping his hand she clung to it. "I sent word as soon as I dared to hope … " A tear trembled in the corner of her eye before it fell.

He placed his other hand over hers. "I came as soon as I could, but it was a hectic day and my presence would have been missed." His eyes drifted to the bed for the first time, the breath froze in his chest as he beheld what the mask had been concealing all these years. "Good Lord in heaven above … he hadn't been exaggerating."

Her head bowed slightly.

Taking a deep breath, he swallowed the shock. How many years had he known this man? This was Erik … then the rest of it slowly sunk in as he let his eyes drift over the white bandages that barely contrasted the pale skin. He was used to seeing a strong bearing in this tall man. The figure in the bed was undeniably gaunt, wasted by extreme illness. Somberly he just stood in silence holding her hand as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"What have I done?" She sobbed quietly. "Oh Walter, just look at him … what have I done?"

He knelt down beside her, looking up into her distressed eyes. "According to your letter, you gave him a chance to survive this. If I read it correctly, it was a tumor in his skull that would have taken him to his grave. There is a chance he can still fully recover, right?"

A shudder rippled through her. "You weren't here … when he woke up earlier. It's happened twice now … he just whimpers and cries out. There's nothing there in his eyes but the torment of agony, Walter!"

"Shhh. Christine." He patted her hand, trying to quell her growing hysteria. "It hasn't been that long, wasn't it just yesterday? He needs time to heal. Think about how long this has been plaguing him. He needs us to be strong for him. Look, he's quiet now. Resting peacefully."

She nodded, haunted eyes just staring at the figure in the bed. "Only until the medicine wears off and he has to wait for the next time they can give it to him." Her fingers brushed against the bruises that marred the skin of his arm. "Selfishly, I just wanted him back."

"Then we're all being selfish." Rubbing her shoulder, Damrosch whispered, "For we all do." Glancing around the room he noted there was only the one nurse, no one else. "Where is Nadir?"

She shuddered deeply, her eyes falling to her lap. "Probably in his chambers downstairs in the other wing. He … he can't stand the sight right now. Honestly … he has lost hope that Erik will recover. I can't … I can't handle the sorrow in his eyes. Nadir already visibly mourns his loss." Shaking hands covered her eyes.

Embracing her firmly, Damrosch just let her sob into his shoulder. " _If one still breathes, there is still hope._ Your husband taught me that. Now, I am serious about this, you let me know if there is anything I can do for you to help you through this. I mean it, anything at all."

Leaning back into the chair she wiped her eyes, sniffling. "There's so much I need to tend to … but he's lying here now … and I need to be here. Someone needs to be here when he wakes."

He bowed his head. "Let me know when. I would be honored. There's something else though, I know you were worried about his books not too long ago."

She stiffened. "I couldn't ask for anything like that! Walter, I know Erik was supporting the Hall, making up for the short-falling. I haven't been able to continue that service and I know the Hall still struggles … I will just have to find more concerts to perform." Grasping Erik's hand she shook her head. "Somehow I'll have to pretend everything is alright and … and … just go on."

With a sigh, Damrosch pulled her eyes back to met his. "If you wish, I can see what I can arrange. There are quite a few local concerts coming up, I can ask the directors. You shouldn't travel as far as you used to. Your son, Charles will be coming home a graduate from Harkness Academy within the next two months. Remember, he has acquired an apprenticeship at Carnegie Hall. I have also employed him as a tutor, everything within my power will be used to get him as many students as he can handle. That should help a bit. Just please concentrate on what's really important." He placed his hand over both of their hands. "Somehow, we'll find a way to get through the rest of this. We've made it this far with this dreadful secret. We need to trust that Erik has it in him, and we just can't see the evidence."

"Will you stay for awhile?" Her eyes drifted up, pleadingly.

Damrosch walked over to the chair beside her. Sitting down in it he offered a somber nod. "Of course. I'll stay for as long as you need me."

Outside the window, the faint light of the silver moon cast down upon the earth. The last sliver before the darkness of a new moon.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

It was a simple doorknob, it wasn't even locked … and yet it barred the way. Leaning heavily on the crutches, Nadir stared blindly at the sickroom door as he had for the past five minutes. No matter how many times he tried to convince his hand to rise and open the door, the will to complete the action abandoned him. The sight inside the room was too painful to bear. Over the course of the past year he could not have imagined anything more disheartening than witnessing Erik's ceaseless ravings. That was, until he had seen the shell of the man lying deathly still in that sickroom bed, the only sign of life that slow rise and fall of his chest.

In the years past, as Erik's fragile trust permitted it, he had confided in Nadir much about his own tragic life. The vision of his friend's wasted body brought starkly to mind a passage Erik had tentatively shared … a time when he had been but a young boy, crudely displayed in a Gypsy's traveling faire. It had been over a decade since the last time Erik and he had sat by the hearth, with that particular tale hesitantly murmured in the light of the flames. Yet, the sight still lingered in his mind, the shame in Erik's mismatched eyes as he gazed miserably into the fire uttering what they had showcased him as — _the living corpse_.

That dreadful phrase could never have been closer to the truth than it was now.

Nadir's eyes lost their focus as he turned his gaze down the shadowed hallway, his thoughts descending deep into Erik's past. In a vain attempt to evade the cruelty of human nature, Erik had built himself a house on the banks of the underground lake beneath the fifth cellar of the Paris Opera he had been constructing. Unfortunately for the company of the Opera, Erik had not confined himself strictly to the cellars … soon enough his love of music wove his haunting presence into a legend. Abusing his skills, he had become the _opera ghost_ , the dreaded _phantom of the opera_. For years he made a mockery of the management while manipulating artistic decisions from the shadows. It was mostly harmless … until he fell in love with the young Christine Daae. He remembered 1881 had been a tragic year as he had tried in vain to control the efforts of his love-sick friend. For Erik, being love-sick had not meant showering affection on his intended … it meant removing any obstacles that stood in his way — permanently! By the time the affair had reached its fevered pitch, there was only one course of action. Erik had to be secreted away from where his nature had wrought the most damage. How long had it been now? Eighteen years? Yes, nearly eighteen years since he had helped Erik escape the dreadful fate his reclusive friend's obsessive nature had wrought in Paris. Crossing an ocean seemed the wisest course of action to keep the law from ever finding him. And, more importantly, to keep the pining Erik from going back on his reluctant decision to release Christine to the arms of what, then seemed, to be a stable man. He had never imagined that a decade later, Christine would have stumbled upon Erik in the midst of his duties at Carnegie Hall … with both having discovered that the flame was still there.

Nadir sighed. Poor Christine. There was no denying how much their love was meant to be. It was evident in the little things he had witnessed between the couple. The way Christine looked after his every need, even when Erik flatly denied his limitations. Erik's secret gestures, such as when he left her roses in apology for something he assumed was offensive. This would happen long after she acknowledged and forgave him. Nadir knew they regretted the decade spent apart. He knew how many times Christine had told Erik that she could never bear to be apart again. He shuddered at the inevitable. By estimation, Erik was thirty years older than she was. There would come a time … but no one had guessed it would be this soon. He did not know what hurt him worse, pondering Erik's fate or Christine's torment as she fought a never ending battle to maintain any hope.

A hand rested upon his shoulder, breaking his reverie. He looked up with a start to see the nurse, Rosalind. Her calm eyes glanced down at his leg. "Why don't you come with me for a bit. Let's see if I can't make that a little more comfortable for you."

"I … I was just going to … " he stuttered, his hand hovering in the air.

She chuckled softly, "No you weren't. If you were actually going to enter, you would have done so ten minutes ago. Now come on." Her strong hand guided him away from the door and into the empty surgery room. Lighting a few of the gas sconces she pointed to the cleaned surgical table. "Up we go." She helped him slide onto it. Lifting the injured leg up, she placed it on a pillow. "Just sit there for a moment, I need a few things before we get started."

Nadir's eyes widened a bit. "You're a nurse, not a surgeon."

Picking up fresh linen, she winked. "No. But I know wound care better than most surgeons. Madame Daae told me you've been troubled by the injury. So, let's just have a good look and see if we can't change that." Selecting a few jars from a cabinet, she grabbed a small wash basin and a towel. Setting everything on a cart within easy reach, she carefully tugged the knot loose. Unwrapping the bandage, her eyes took in the injury one turn of the linen at a time until at long last she pulled it free.

"No need for that one again." She tossed it aside. Observing the stitches, she murmured, "Hrm, so it was the tibia that broke. That's quite a sizable laceration. Good stitching. No discharge, just an understandable amount of swelling. Not too red or hot." Slowly she looked up at him, knowingly. "Just shows signs of not having been elevated nearly enough."

He was about to stutter out a reply, when she reached over and grabbed a bottle, pouring out a generous portion onto a clean cloth over the basin. Working gently around the wound, she began to cleanse it.

"I have a mind to set up a bed in the other room for you." She was smiling as she said it. "Put this unfortunate limb up in traction for a bit. See this swelling here? That's proof you've been on it too much. This may hurt a bit, I'm going to get right up close to those stitches. But the silver nitrate will do a good job of making sure everything is clean."

"Please don't trouble yourself with my care. Erik is the — ouch!"

"Sorry, that may have pulled a bit." She leaned in, looking closer. "Ahh, the scab trapped the edge of the stitch. Hold on, that can't be comfortable." Nimbly, her fingernail tugged on the rabbit ear of the thread freeing it from the tissue. "There we are. Sometimes that happens. Now let me see. Looks to be healing alright for … about a week?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes roving over the dark bruising. "Eight days, actually. It's been eight days since he broke it." With a shudder, he was forced to look away.

Rosalind spared a short glance as she picked up another jar, this one with a powder in it that she sprinkled directly over the stitches. "Two more weeks before those are going to come out then. Looks like this skin under the bandage is getting dry." Plucking up another jar, she opened it up to reveal a cream. "This will help with that part, best to get that before things are too itchy. Now tell me, how are those straps feeling?"

"I … uhh … fine, I suppose. Not really something I have been thinking about." He shrugged, his eyes studying the surgical leather strap dangling from the table. He shivered thinking about waking to find oneself restrained on here.

Her hand enclosed his, bringing his eyes down to meet her solemn gaze. "I know. I can see what's on your mind. You two … you are very close friends, aren't you."

Slowly, he lowered his head, trying to suppress the tears. "How … how did you know?"

"Not everyone would continue to try and care for someone after an injury like this … especially when that person inflicted it." Massaging the cream close to the edges of the stitches, she flicked him a quick glance. "It shows a remarkable devotion rarely seen these days."

Nadir heaved a sigh. "He … he is a dear friend. Even now … "

"Which is why you were in the hall, unable to enter the room." Picking up the fresh linen strip, she began at his ankle, wrapping slowly and snugly towards the thigh. She felt him flinch at her words. "It's very hard to see a close friend so dreadfully ill. But you know what can be worse?"

Curiously, he cocked his head, watching as she skillfully tied the bandage.

She met his eyes. "Being the one lying there wondering where his friend is when he needs him most." She took his hand administering a comforting squeeze. "Erik is barely conscious at the moment. I doubt he would realize you are missing yet … but soon, he will be aware."

She helped him off the table and back onto his crutches. "You really believe he's going to … be himself again?"

Collecting the bottles and shuttling them away, Rosalind shrugged. "If I believed otherwise with every patient that came out of the surgical theater, well then, the patient's themselves would give up hope in my presence. I can't have that!" She waved a hand at him. "I'll change that for you on a daily basis. The powder will speed the healing. Although I know you're not going to do this, try to keep off of it as much as you can. You really should have it propped up the majority of the day."

"I'll try." He sighed, his eyes sliding vaguely in the direction of the sickroom.

Moving over to the surgery door she opened it for him. "Nadir, give yourself a day if it is too much. I assure you, right now he will not notice. But soon, he will need your encouragement. It will help more than any medication."

Slowly he nodded, hobbling past her with his head slightly bowed.

Rosalind observed he began his distracted journey down the hall. He paused, his eyes once more contemplating the sickroom door. There was a slight loosening of his grip on the crutch, a slight motion toward the doorknob … but then his resolve left him. His eyes shut tightly before he turned and resumed his pained retreat.

Poor soul. There had been so much guilt in his eyes. With a sigh, she turned off the gas supply to the sconces. Tragedy rarely isolated its effects to one individual. All too often when it struck, the whole family was caught in the storm. She had never seen a family quite as peculiar as this one was … nor one that contained this much loyalty.

* * *

Molly gently placed the back of her hand against the skin of Erik's neck, normally it would have been the forehead but with so much linen wrapping it would have done her no good. "He's a little warm, but not to the point of a fever. That ticker of his is just beating away in there. That right there is a good sign." She offered a sweet smile to a weary Christine. "Can tell he has a good heart, Lassie. A nice strong one. I'll just pop down to the kitchen and fetch some broth now that he is resting once more."

Just as she opened the door with the empty bowl in her hands, Rosalind slipped through. Molly's hand briefly rested upon her shoulder as she discretely whispered. "Just gave him another dose about a half hour back." Shaking her head somberly, she cast her eyes back to Christine. "It was a rough couple of hours, he was really hurting. I tried to get her to leave the room, but she flatly refused. This keeps up much longer we'll need to start her on medication."

Rosalind's gaze slowly adjusted to the darkened room. "Thank you, Molly. Sorry I was delayed, I had another patient to tend to."

"Oh?" She raised her brows. "Oh yes, that fellow with the splint. What's his name? It was a strange one … foreign of sorts."

"Nadir." Rubbing her hands on her apron she sighed. "Poor fellow has more than a broken leg to mend. Anything need tending here?"

Molly nodded, her eyes directly locked on Christine. "Oh aye. I'll be back with the broth in a little bit. I need to just grab a little bit to keep myself going."

"Go ahead. I'll be fine." Wandering over to the bedside, she waved the nurse out the door. Grabbing a pile of laundered towels, she sat down to fold them, casting a quick glance up at Christine beside her. Softly she started to hum a little ditty, just a soft melody to fill the room.

Idly, Christine's hands reached down and plucked a towel from the pile beside her. Without conscious thought she began to fold it. One after another.

Rosalind smiled, her plan having worked. Beside her, Christine's rigid posture was softening as her fingers worked on the mindless task. Quietly, the nurse inquired, "How long have you two been married?"

Distantly, she replied. "Seven … seven years this June."

Just keep her talking, that was all she needed to do. Rosalind set a folded towel on the growing stack. "June? So there's an anniversary coming up, Madame Daae."

"Christine, you may call me Christine. Yes, usually it is a joyous day for us." She smiled ever so slightly. "I've known him for longer … it's been eight years since we were reunited. I … for a time I thought he had died."

It was Rosalind's turn to pause. Her eyes closing for a long moment before she resumed folding the laundry. Her voice was tinged with great sympathy. "That must have have been difficult, being away from someone you love for so long."

Glancing up, Christine reached a hand over. "Here I am prattling about the past, likely your husband is missing you back home."

Morosely, Rosalind pulled out a fine chain from around her neck previously concealed by her dress. A plain gold band suspended from her trembling grasp. "I can assure you, Christine, I miss him more."

Covering her mouth, Christine stared at the significance of the suspended band. "Oh no! What happened?"

This wasn't precisely the discussion Rosalind had been aiming for, but perhaps it would help in the end. Dropping her eyes to idly watch her own hands folding the towels, she took a deep breath. "It's been so many years now since I lost Louis. He worked hard as a tunneler here in Manhattan. We'd been married for only a year when the victims of the tunnel collapse started pouring into the hospital where I was working. For days on end we tended to them. I kept searching the wards, hoping, praying … " She lowered her head. "He never came to the hospital … what they managed to find of him went straight to the morgue. There I sat alone each night in the home we had shared, surrounded by the dreams we had wished to fulfill … and now never would."

Christine's eyes narrowed, trembling with the threat of tears. "I'm so sorry."

"Tis the way of life, sometimes." She heaved a long sigh. "Afterward, I just couldn't stay here in this city. Too much reminded me of our courtship. So, I went to Boston, buried myself in the work. Each and every patient I tended I was reminded of how I had felt as I searched those wards, wondering if he had lived. I had never given up hope until I had seen the proof." A smile softened her features. "So many years ago, it doesn't hurt so much now … his memory has become my strength to help others keep their hope alive. It's made me better at what I do."

Tentatively, Christine leaned over and embraced Rosalind. There were no words, only a warm embrace as she sank into the compassionate nurse's arms.

"It's alright." Rosalind rubbed her shoulder. "I know this is difficult."

"Now I know why you do." Sobbed Christine. "None of it is fair! Not what happened to your Louis, not what happened to my Erik … not what's happened to us. It's just not fair!"

In the darkness, Rosalind closed her eyes, letting Christine release all the tears she had been holding back. When she had finished, the nurse held up one of the towels gently drying away the tears. "Now. You just let me know when those tears need to flow again. You can't hold all that inside you. There's something else you need to do."

Blindly, Christine looked down at her hands.

"Go and get some sleep."

She protested weakly, "But I have to stay with him."

Rosalind rubbed her cheek softly. "You need to rest up for him."

* * *

The candlelight guttered in the evening breeze from the window. Beneath her head the pillow was damp, drenched with her silent tears. Hours ago she had wearily changed into a silken nightgown … only to be plagued by memories of the night Erik had given it to her, celebrating their first anniversary.

Everything in this beautiful room reminded her of him. From the elegant four poster bed to the elaborate carved friezes lining the stone walls. They had been meticulously carved by his hands, his personal refuge from the prying eyes of the world. For eight years now she had slept in this bed chamber wrapped in the essence of the man she loved. Only this last year … he hadn't been able to lie beside her.

The tears stung fresh in her eyes as her fingers drifted over to his empty pillow. Leaning against the satin pillowcase she habitually replaced with the rest of the sheets, was one of his old masks. He hadn't worn one for probably the longest period of time in his life. Beside her, this garment that had been so critical to his existence … so essential to his dignity … hollowly stared back at her through the vacant eye holes.

Not unlike his eyes when they had cracked open earlier. The sorrow twisted into her chest, physically she contracted into a ball. Her hands dragged the mask into her embrace. The soft feather-bed beneath her did nothing to comfort her weary body.

How could she be lying here in this empty bedchamber while he was confined to that miserable sickbed in the other wing? The thoughts were the same that had plagued her for the whole of the year, only the circumstances had changed. In the first weeks of Erik's imprisonment Nadir had been forced to carry her from the corridor of the cellar, sitting guard in the study outside the bedchamber door lest she sneak back down. The ritual had gradually diminished over time, but inside her the wound continued to reopen each time she laid in relative comfort.

When would this end? When would she open her eyes in the morning light to find his arms embracing her once more?

A gust of wind blew in through the window, the candle flame clung desperately to the wick, guttering … stripped from the twisted fibers the light dissolved, abandoning the room to the darkness of a moonless night.

Christine trembled beneath the covers, her sobs echoing in the bedchamber. "Erik … come back to me! I can't live without you!"


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

Pulling the final end of the linen bandage free, Rosalind gently lowered Erik's limp head down onto the towel she had placed over the pillow. The wound beneath was much the same as it had been for every other bandage change past the first one. Since the first one there was only a marginal discharge from the drainage tube. The bruising was extensive. Black and blue marring the thin skin from his eyes up into the silver hair. Directly in the center of his forehead was the swollen source of the discoloration where a long row of stitched flesh puckered under the tension. She could tell the stitches were pulling a bit against that unusually brittle skin. One of the central ones looked like might tear just looking at it. Blessedly there was a complete absence of any sign of sepsis.

Carefully she rolled Erik onto his left side, guiding his head to be certain it rolled gently. It had been a full hour since his last injection of codeine. He was entirely removed from this world which was probably a good thing considering what they were about to do. She heard the door open, Wright's voice broke the silence. "Is he unconscious?"

"Yes," she replied, glancing at the bedside table where everything had been prepared.

"Good, let's get some light in here!"

"Agatha," Rosalind called out over her shoulder. "Since there is no chance he'll open his eyes at the moment, would you please turn up the gas on the wall sconces."

The nurse stood up from her seat in the corner and completed her task without remark.

Wright hovered over the bedside, his eyes taking in the status of the wound. "No drainage, you say. You are right, I also don't see anything to be alarmed about. Not healing much yet, but it has only been a handful of days. Let's get that tube out."

After cleaning his hands thoroughly, Doctor Wright slipped into the space where Rosalind had been. "I see you got the wife to leave."

She nodded. "Sent her off to bed. I was hoping we would complete this before she returned. That's why I woke you early this morning."

Wright gave a quick nod, his scalpel already nipping at the suture that held the drain in place. "Wise choice. I prefer not having an audience for this part." Gently he tugged on the narrow rubber tubing. Extracting it from the hole, it resembled a worm as he freed it from the surrounding tissue. Laying the tube aside, he took a good look at the slight gap left behind. "Keep a close eye on that, Foster. Let me know if you start seeing anything strange."

"Of course." She replied, her eyes drifting down to the jar tucked under the bed. She heaved a tense sigh. "Speaking of strange … there is something we've noticed, something that is a little troubling. Doctor Wright."

His eyes were still examining each stitch on the forehead. Distractedly he murmured, "what?"

"Well, Doctor. Given Erik's current fluctuating consciousness it's been difficult to administer fluids to him. He has to be conscious for it. The trouble is that his urine flow is rather fast, the rate at which we have to empty the jar is markedly increased. It leaves him at a rather serious risk for dehydration."

Wright shifted his attention from the incision to pulling back the covers. Picking up Erik's right ankle, he brushed the toes feeling for the reflex. All his ears heard from the nurse was a complaint about the time frame of a task. "The man has undergone a rather traumatic surgery, of course some things are out of balance."

Rosalind's glare at the surgeon went unnoticed as she watched him gently rapping on reflex points. "Doctor. I don't think you realize how much a difference I'm referring to. The fluids are leaving him at a faster rate then we can hope to replenish them in his current state."

"Good. Good. The swelling must be going down." He smiled, his fingers traveling along different pathways testing to see the strength of the triggered response. "Even under sedation, as he currently is, the reflexes have improved since prior to the surgery. Especially down here where they had been impeded the greatest. This is a good sign. However, there is evidence of significant muscle atrophy. Keep that in mind when we get closer to getting him up and out of bed."

Rolling her eyes, Rosalind persisted once more. "He won't make it out of bed **ever** if he succumbs to dehydration."

Wright lowered Erik's wrist, letting it rest on the bed. "So, give him more broth," he replied as though it was the obvious course of action. "Now let me see, he has been on his back since the surgery. Let's leave him on his side as you have him now for few days. Don't want any risk of fluid building up in the lungs. Keep up the dressing changes." Observing the thin skin stretched in the hold of stitches he shook his head. "Normally I would go back in a couple of months and reinsert the missing bone. But I'm not convinced the skin would successfully heal twice … it may not even do so this first time. That still worries me."

Without another word, Wright exited the room leaving Rosalind standing at the bedside with a frustrated glare on her face. Picking up the bottle from the table she turned back to Erik and began cleansing the wound with the silver nitrate, muttering to herself, "About as pleasant as a stroll through stinging nettles!"

Agatha wandered by with a stack of prepared linen strips. "Told you, if it doesn't directly relate to his surgical procedure he doesn't pay it any mind at all." Drifting between the sconces she began to lower the light level, at least being considerate enough to start with the opposite side of the room.

"Stuff it, Agatha!" Rosalind huffed. Of course she was furious. It's not like Erik was her first post-operation patient. She knew what was considered normal, and she had not been the only nurse to notice, Molly had also made the remark. This just meant they needed to figure something out quickly to resolve the issue without the aid of the _esteemed_ doctor. She had hoped that Wright would have at least listened to her, now she grumbled to herself for not having known better.

Snatching up the iodoformogen powder she coated the stitched incision well before forcing back the anger. Picking up a long strip of clean linen she knew she had to have steady and gentle hands, for his sake. Whether or not he could feel what she was doing now, this bandage would remain in place until the next change. Taking a deep breath, she carefully lifted his head enough to slide the wrap underneath. Painstakingly, she wrapped the linen in overlapping bands. Tying the end into a neat little knot, she pulled the towel from the pillow and gently nestled his head down in the soft surface. Pulling the blanket up she let his hand rest above the covers, easy access for checking his pulse.

With a sigh, she pulled out an empty jar and switched the tube over under the edge of the bed. Picking up the full one she thrust it into Agatha's idle hands. "Here, make yourself useful instead of sitting the corner! When you come back, bring up more broth."

Alone in the room, Rosalind sat down in the chair with her head resting in her hand. Get more into him … how?

* * *

 _Impenetrable darkness for an untold passage of time. That was all he had known since that distant day when the door had slammed shut for what he realized was the final time. Erik sat huddled in the corner of the dismal cell, motionless, numbed by the sheer futility of any action. He foolishly had been the architect of his own demise, a victim of his own in-genius trap. This cell wasn't real, not in any tangible sense … but that was precisely what had rendered the confinement so paralyzingly painful. It was only a room within his mind, a prison he had designed out of grim necessity. In his rational days, he had erected the structure with the sole purpose of confining that demon. Brick by brick, indestructible solid walls had been layered until they were sufficient to drown out_ his _enraged cries. Hard stone, that could resist the destructive claws that he knew full well could tear the world asunder. The iron door had a lock system so complex and so completely shielded from within there was no possible way to access it from inside. No windows permitted light within. It had been the perfect place to lock away the madness where it could do no harm. He had never intended to become its unwitting prisoner, entirely cut off from the world … since then he had merely existed in this isolating hell unable to reach out, unable to be reached._

 _How long ago had been the last time he had groped blindly along the walls in a vain attempt to find some means of escape? How long ago since he had last even located the door? There was no point in trying to undo what he had done … in a moment of weakness he had called upon the aid of that creature born of darkness, releasing_ him _into the world. From that moment on his own fate had been sealed. The battle had been a violent grapple for control. A series of brutal conflicts that left him exhausted, crawling on the floor in desperation. That was when he awoke … his eyes glimpsing the shard of light as the gap slowly closed. The finality of that thunderous boom had penetrated his frantic mind as he realized that the monster had dragged his consciousness into the chamber, imprisoning him behind the unrelenting door. There was nothing for him now. Just a dark and soundless void, drowning in isolated despair._

 _His eyes hadn't blinked in what seemed like an eon. What was the point, this body wasn't real. Just a construct within the mind, the mind that held him prisoner. This was the cruelest version of hell imaginable, he had thought in a time before he had become too numb to even ponder his fate. But thinking now, contemplating what horrendous deeds that beast was capable of with control of a physical body … it was too painful. Better not to think at all._

 _Gold, faint and fleeting, the ribbon of light stretched across the floor, briefly outlining the fingers of his left hand before it vanished. Erik paid it no heed. Just another trick to torment him in this dark prison. A moment later, it returned, stretching to illuminate his whole hand in the faint rays. His eyes moved slowly, tracing the blue veins under his pale white skin. Was he imagining this? Of course … none of this was real in what a rational mind would define. He dared to lift the fingers on his skeletal hand. The light remained._

 _Shifting his stiff neck, he followed the beam of light to find the edge of the door … it was open, not very far. Perhaps enough that he might be able to reach his fingers through. If he could get that much out … did he dare to hope? Numb limbs locked up from disuse shuddered as he tried to rise. Standing would not happen, his knees buckled at his feeble attempt. Falling forward, Erik shambled toward the shaft of light on his hands and knees, dragging his body in fitful surges._

 _It was so far away … the cell had seemed so small until now! Terrified the door would inevitably slam shut before he could reach it, he flung himself toward it, ramming his long fingers around the cold metal. The sensation … the first he had felt of anything in ages, felt like he had grabbed a red hot bar of iron from the forge's fire! He refused to recoil at the pain. If this was real … Pulling and straining he used his grip on the door to aid in his progress. It was heavy on hinges rusted from disuse. One hand against the door and one against the stone of his prison, Erik tried to wedge a hand through the crack. The hinges groaned as he contorted for a better grip, an angle with more leverage. Reaching an arm out, he felt the tease of freedom, his eyes blinded by the golden shaft til he could not see what lie beyond. Whatever it held had to be better than this hellish void! Clawing against the stone floor, he managed to get enough purchase to press against the outside of the door … it opened to the inside. In a series of exhausting shoves, he felt the door's edge begin to pivot. One final thrust and it was wide enough._

 _Frail and withered, Erik lie across the threshold blocking the door from any chance of closing upon him again. Blinding light shut his eyes, but he forced them open. It had been too long! Feebly he mustered the strength to drag the rest of his body from the cell, his arms and legs racked with the effort._

 _Let me wake up, he thought desperately! Let me open my eyes! Please!_

 _Reaching his hand up into the light, he struggled to rise to his feet, struggled to keep his eyes open against the brightness …_

His swollen eyes cracked opened.

For the first time since he had lost access to the world, Erik glimpsed reality through his own mismatched eyes. Everything felt foreign. The shapes were vague as the muscles in his eyes gradually came under his control. He felt something soft underneath him, a bed perhaps. There was pressure against his left side, leading him to wonder vaguely if he was lying on it. Thinking physically hurt, needles of pain jabbed into his head from all angles. Recoiling at first, he eventually reached past the agony, yearning just to feel again. Pain meant he was still alive. Slowly his eyes blinked, the dimly lit room gradually clearing. The surroundings were unfamiliar … not entirely. The walls were part of some distant memory, but his mind stuttered to recall where. The furnishings were very strange, foreign … except. Wait … what was that in the chair, just beyond reach … could it be?

The name came to him, halting and slow. Drawing in a breath, Erik exhaled it, struggling to form the proper sounds. " … Chris … tine … " It was a dry rasp, hardly above a whisper.

She opened weary eyes, labored eyes with bags beneath them. Briefly they studied him before she exhaled a breath and closed them once more.

Desperately, Erik drew in another breath. Louder, he needed more volume, he had to make her hear him.

Putting everything he had into it, Erik exhaled her name in a plea. " … Christine … "

She stiffened in the chair. Her eyes slowly opening wide, she stood up and leaned over looking down into his frail gaze. "Erik? Was that you?" Her voice trembled.

Swallowing hard, he dredged up the strength once more, wincing at the stab of pain the effort inflicted upon him. His shaking hand hovered uselessly in the void between them, falling abysmally short of its goal. "Christine … _aidez moi_ … "

Breathlessly, Christine seized the hand. Her eyes shut tightly as her knees gave out. Beside the bed, she knelt pressing his hand to her forehead, gasping out tearfully. "My name, you know my name! Oh my God! Erik! You're speaking French!"

Nadir, seated next to Christine, gripped the arm of his chair in shock as he leaned forward. Wide-eyed with disbelief, his jaw hung open.

Closing and opening his eyes was a heavy burden, every motion induced an intense pain originating from his head. Shakily, Erik tried to move his left hand upward on a journey to the source of his agony. Lifting her head, Christine realized his intention and grasped the rogue hand. "No, my love. No, you need to keep your hands away from there."

He moaned, shutting his eyes. His whole body began to shudder as he continued to regain consciousness. There was no hope of speech now. He wanted to scream, he wanted to curl up and just fall away from this.

Darkness! Not again! Petrified at the thought of that door holding him imprisoned once more, Erik wailed out, struggling against Christine's grasp around his bandaged wrists. In a fit of panic he couldn't sort out which was worse … the pain of consciousness or the paralyzing dark void engulfing him again. Every possibility terrified him.

"Shh!" Christine held fast to his left wrist. Gently she stroked his shoulder with the other hand. "Easy, Erik … be calm, please. Shh. You need to lie still."

Shuddering breaths punctuated the air as Erik winced against the dim light. Tears fell from his eyes dripping down onto Christine's hand, her own tears mingled with his. He had yearned to return to reality for so long … but not to this, not to this!

Molly rushed back into the room with Wright. The doctor glanced at the clock noting the time before he hastily grabbed the syringe from the bedside table. Dipping the needle into a bottle he tipped it, pulling back to fill the chamber to the appropriate volume.

Christine tearfully proclaimed, "He spoke! Doctor Wright, it was him, he really spoke. He knew me."

Freeing the needle from the bottle, he nodded distantly before taking Erik's left wrist from Christine's grasp. Numbly, she withdrew, her eyes finally seeing the syringe in the doctor's hand.

"What are you doing? No! Please don't sedate him! Not now!" She moved to intercept.

Blocking the attempt, Doctor Wright only spared her a momentary glance. "He needs this right now. Can't you see how much pain he is in?" Fighting to hold Erik's arm still enough for the injection he cursed under his breath. "Hold still!"

Erik's frail voice rasped out, " _Non! Pas plus d'obscurité!_ "

Holding the thin limb firmly, Doctor Wright paused, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "That … that wasn't Persian. Was that French?"

Christine's tears fell freely as she nodded. Hesitantly, she translated for doctor, "He said _not, not more darkness_."

Resolved, despite Erik's feeble struggling, he pushed the tip of the needle to puncture its goal. Depressing the syringe to deliver the liquid into the muscle, the doctor maintained his vice-like grip on the patient's trembling arm until he felt the muscle fibers begin to relax. The dose had been high, it had been a calculated risk to introduce that much codeine that quickly. Counting the heart beat as it slowed from the previously racing pace, he finally laid Erik's arm on the bed after the rate stabilized. The overwhelmed eyes had drifted closed some minutes before.

"He will rest quietly now." Standing up he turned to find Nadir had risen, his arm supporting Christine. She quietly sobbed, her face buried in his shoulder. "Madame Daae, please understand that it would have been detrimental to leave him in that state overlong. Your husband was in a great deal of pain. He needs to rest as much as possible in these critical days … "

She shook her head in disagreement. Taking a staggering step back she collapsed into the chair.

Exhaling slowly, Doctor Wright laid a hand on her shoulder. "The fact that he recognized you and spoke clearly is a very good sign. The prognosis now has greatly improved for his chances of recovery. However, this will take a long time. The healing process will be slow and staggered. You need to be patient and let me do what is best for him."

Her hand strayed up to contact his with her red-rimmed blue eyes stared past him. "It has been so long … " she whispered almost in a trance. "So long since we have heard his voice say my name."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

Rosalind opened the door expecting to be greeted by the darkened silence. Instead, an endless string of muttering met her ears … and it wasn't the patient. He was still lying on his side, soundly in a drugged slumber. At the bedside, the old Persian reclined in one chair, his leg propped up on the other obviously napping. Good, at least he was in here. That was a start. There could only be one more source for the vocalizations. Her eyes discovered Lucy pacing about the room with her arms across her chest, fit to be tied. The moment the nurse realized she was not alone she fixed Rosalind with a glare.

"About time!" she snapped "Gah! Why did he have to wake up! It was so much easier before! I've just about had it with him!"

Taking a step back, Rosalind cocked her head observing the scene. It seemed peaceful enough, save for the rather aggrieved nurse. She didn't have a chance to even respond before Lucy continued.

"Every bloody waking moment he was into something!"

Rosalind had to quell a bout of laughter. "Lucy, don't be so dramatic. Erik is entirely bedridden at the moment. He can't lift his head without nearly passing out. How much trouble can he really be?"

She thrust her finger into Rosalind's shoulder. "Oh, you'll see! His hands get into everything, I spent the entire night picking things up off the floor he knocked off the table."

Looking over at the bed, she passed by the ranting nurse. Gently taking hold of the table she tugged it over well out of arms length. With a grin, she turned back to Lucy. "Problem solved."

That earned her a glare.

There was a soft moan from the bed, Erik would wake up soon.

Lucy snuffed, pointing at him. "Good. It's your turn to pick up after him!" Without another word she stormed out of the door, closing it with a bang.

Nadir opened his eyes, stretching in the chair with a wide yawn. "Oh good. You're here."

She shook her head, taking a quick glance to see how Erik was doing. He seemed much quieter then she remembered on previous shifts, not nearly as much wincing. It would still be several minutes before he opened his eyes yet.

Rosalind reached over and gave Nadir's hand a pat. "It's good to see you here as well. You see? I told you things would improve."

He offered a quick warm smile before his eyes drifted to Erik. Shaking his head he sighed. "Not so certain I would call it an improvement, so much as a change."

"Oh?"

"He had a very restless night. When he was conscious it was a constant stir of activity. His actions kept moving his head and he nearly lost consciousness a few times." He shrugged. "Of course, I'm not certain that nurse was helping much with her ceaseless scolding."

Clicking her tongue, she eyed the door. "No, I should say that probably did make the situation worse." Something brushed against her right hand. She looked down to find Erik's bruised eyes cracked open, his shaking fingers having brushed against her. "Oh, well now, good morning. Look who woke up faster than I expected."

Blinking slowly, Erik took in a deep breath before lifting his right hand from the bed, reaching out.

She chuckled, taking the hand and gently guiding it back to the bed. "Easy now. Don't try to move too much."

Of course the moment she let go, his hand once more resumed the clumsy groping off the edge of the bed. His eyes stared out into the space behind her. Snippets of words left him in a jumble, not only parts of words but various languages comprising a single word.

Rosalind continued to guide his feebly resisting hand back onto the bed, her brow creasing at Erik's mangled attempts to communicate.

With a sigh, Nadir lifted a hand. "And the restless night continues. He just kept doing that. That and the mess of partial words tumbling out. None of that makes any sense of course, since he keeps switching languages within a word."

Erik whimpered. The distress in his eyes intensified as he redoubled his efforts to reach out, fighting to move the limb with coordination that he did not yet possess. In his efforts, he inadvertently tipped his head. The sudden motion resulted in the arm falling limply against the edge of the bed while his eyes rolled back.

"Alright, that's enough of that." Rosalind took his hand firmly, this time not letting it go. "Erik. Open your eyes again … Erik. There we are. Now you have to stop fussing like that. You're going to hurt yourself. Actually it looks like you did, the bandage on your wrist is damp, you must have popped a blister. Have to clean that up in a bit."

He frantically muttered out another mangled phrase.

Shaking her head, she replied. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you are trying to say."

His eyes brimmed with tears.

"Easy. That doesn't mean we're not going to try to figure that out." She gave him an encouraging smile. "Close your eyes and concentrate, Erik. Just concentrate on what you're trying to tell me. One word. Just one word in one language. Alright? Take your time."

The eyes closed tightly, his whole arm trembled with the effort as several times he tried. Nadir was left to shake his head in apology as Rosalind glanced back at him.

Erik took a series of deep breaths before his weak voice stuttered out, " … _soif_ … "

Sitting up with a start, Nadir cocked his head.

"Did that mean something?" Rosalind darted a glance, still holding Erik's frantic grasp.

"I think so … " Nadir replied hesitantly "He didn't pronounce it right at all. Had that been me speaking French to him he would have swatted my hand and made me pronounce it right. But I think he said _soif_ , it means thirst in French."

Slowly, Rosalind followed Erik's distant gaze beyond her. There upon the table was the bowl of broth. "Good heavens! That is what he was trying to tell us!" Releasing his hand, she scooped up the bowl, immediately lifting the spoon as she brought it closer. Erik's uncoordinated hands edged up, trying to find it within the space.

"Why don't you let me do this for you." She grinned as his long fingers found her wrist.

As she watched, his hands very clumsily, but with a defined purpose, roved towards the bowl using her arm as a guide. Once they found their goal, he grasped it, pulling it towards him with frantic eyes.

"Erik. You can't hold that."

But he didn't relent, the motion became more desperate, he muttered the mangled word again. " … _soif_ … "

Her attempts to pry his trembling fingers from the bowl were entirely in vain. "Persistent, isn't he!" She furrowed her brow, contemplating the gesture. He was fully conscious at least. With a sigh, she set the spoon aside and guided the bowl towards his lips. He continued to clutch the edges, trembling with the effort it took for the action.

Carefully she edged her hand beneath the pillow, very slowly shifting his head up a little more, slow enough not to trigger a dizzy spell. The moment the broth contacted his lips, Erik began to gulp down the dark brown fluid as quickly as it would go down his throat.

"Slow down, you'll choke." She changed the angle of the bowl slightly, controlling the amount.

His eyes had shut and he was catching quick breaths between swallows, harsh gasps that punctuated the air. It wasn't long before the bowl was empty in her hands. She tried to pull it away and was forced to pry his fingers loose to his frustrated cry. Panting for breath, he was still grasping for the bowl now out of reach.

The door opened as Molly slipped into the room to the sight of a stunned Rosalind staring into the empty bowl. Quietly, Molly made her way across the room, her eyes taking in the empty vessel.

Rosalind met Erik's desperate gaze as he lie there, the trembling hand pointing at the bowl. "Molly, I think he wants more."

Taking the offered dish, she asked. "Shall I fetch a fresh bowl?"

"As much as you can carry up here. If he wants it, let's give it to him." Leaning forward, she took Erik's hand. "You just lie still, we'll have some more in a bit. Meanwhile, let's get that wrist cleaned up. Shall we?"

His eyes studied her as she unwrapped the bandage exposing the raw and blistered ring of flesh. The moment it was visible, Erik's eyes narrowed with confusion. His fingers flexed in the air.

Taking a cloth soaked with silver nitrate, Rosalind gently cleansed the weeping sore. At least the fluid from the blister was clear. "Yes." She watched as he studied his hand where she held it. "That's yours."

The fingers of his left hand slowly edge up, just about to touch the scarred wrist.

She was forced to use the back of her hand to guide the inquisitive fingers away. "Not a good idea. Let me finish, please."

In the chair behind her, Nadir was chuckling quietly as he watched. "Please understand, Rosalind, I am not laughing at you … it's because I have been through this with him. Oh, this is going to get interesting quickly!"

At the sound of the voice, Erik's eyes drifted slowly towards Nadir. His voice muttered out a series of disconnected, multilingual words, before he shut his eyes in frustration.

"Wait until he starts feeling better." Nadir leaned back in the chair. "It will be challenging to keep him from overexerting himself."

With a laugh, Rosalind coated the entire wrist with the pale yellow powder before wrapping a fresh strip of linen around it. "His body will limit him."

"That's what you think." He laughed. "Good luck convincing him of that."

Molly walked in carrying a tray with three bowls. "Here we go."

From the bed, Erik once more began to reach out. It took Rosalind's hand on his shoulder to keep him calm. "Just lie still. Give me a moment." She could hardly get the bowl to him quickly enough. His fingers once more searched their way to the rim, holding tight in a shaky embrace. Her own hand fought hard to stabilize it.

"Would you look at that!" Molly declared. "Make sure he comes up for air."

"At least that much he seems to have managed," she replied gently pulling the bowl back. "That one is empty. Let me get the next one … Erik, let go."

Coming to the rescue, Molly edged another one into view. Erik's hands latched onto it and with her aid he began to gulp the fresh one down. "And you were worried about getting fluids in him." Molly laughed. "This rate, he'll drain the whole pot."

The nurses switched places for the last bowl. As Rosalind pulled it back, Erik's hand pawed at the air. "Why don't we make certain that stays in you for a bit." He was panting for air, his eyes drooping with exhaustion. "We can't have that coming back up again, won't do you any good at all."

"Four bowls." Chuckled Molly. "If we can keep that up, it should help."

Drifting closed, Erik's eyes struggled to focus, a slight wince of pain caught Rosalind's attention. "Also looks like the window of opportunity may be fairly narrow for now. We'll have to be ready when he wakes. He wears out fairly quickly."

Gathering up the dishes, Molly shook her head. "Well just look at him, he's just a wisp of a thing. Soon as we can, we need to get him on some real food before he wastes away to naught but a ghost."

Nadir flinched a bit, his eyes drifted down to find Erik had blessedly fallen asleep, he had not heard the nurses unfortunate phrasing.

Plucking the damp bandage from where she had left it on the bed, Rosalind somberly rested a hand on Erik's wrist measuring his resting pulse. "He'll need to be able to sit up first. That is a long while coming yet. He hardly has the strength for that. It'll be one day at a time."

* * *

Pulling the blanket back, Rosalind draped the end of it over his waist. With great care she rolled him on his back, being careful not to trap the undone ties of the hospital gown as she did so. It took scarcely any effort move him, when he was sleeping that is. It was a little surprising how much resistance his frail limbs could provide when he had a will for something. The strength proved incredibly fleeting, though.

Her eyes shifted to his bared wrists, undressed in preparation for a good cleaning. The blister he had broken open the day before on his right wrist thankfully showed no sign of infection. Carefully she extracted his arms from the gown. Pulling the whole garment out from the beneath the covers, she discarded it on the floor.

With all of Erik's pale upper body exposed to the air she reached into the basin and wrung out the rough sponge. Gently rubbing it around both his wrists, she took the most care with the damaged skin first. Once that was done, she worked the rough sponge down his arm along the pocked bruises of the numerous injection sights. She had reached his shoulder when a slight motion caught her.

His eyes were open. There had been no moan, no senseless muttering precluding his wakeful state. He was just silently watching while his arm hung limply in her grasp as she washed it.

"Hello Erik." She reached back, re-wetting the sponge. "Nice warm water, isn't it?"

When she resumed, she watched as his eyes followed her every move. Rivulets of water flowed down, settling in the shallow channels between his ribs. Slowly, his eyes drifted up to find her in the dim light. "What … what are … you doing?" Visibly he struggled in his efforts to find the right words. His voice weak, every word came halting and constantly questioned.

"Giving you a bath," she replied quietly.

His eyes followed the path of the rough sponge as it traversed the crevices of his chest. "Baths use … " the final word wouldn't come. His hand balled into a fist as he shut his eyes tightly.

"Take your time, just concentrate."

" … tubs … ", he muttered.

She shrugged. "Usually, yes. However, it'll be a good while yet before you can handle a full bath. So for now it's a nice sponge."

His eyes narrowed in thought while she dragged the rough sponge across the hollow of his stomach. "Why … what's wrong … with me?"

Throughout his brief conscious periods, this had been the longest he had spoken English. The time between the words was long, the occasional grimace of pain betraying his unfortunate underlying state. The codeine could only suppress so much, buy him only so much time before he was left blinded by the agony, waiting for the next dose.

Dropping the sponge into the basin, the smile faded as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Erik, you've been extremely ill. You are still in need of a great deal of rest." This wasn't the first time she had told him, but this was the calmest he had been. Maybe this time he would be able to retain it.

Closing his eyes briefly, he winced for the span of a few breaths, his hand drifting into the air vaguely towards his head. She realized he was gritting his teeth against the effort of the motion. Snatching the sponge from the basin, she wrung it out and resumed, grabbing the limb in mid air. "Best not to do that right now."

Cracking his eyes back open, he released a sigh of quiet frustration. His eyes slowly drifted down to the shock of silver hair that trailed down over his shoulder. "When … my hair … long … never … "

Rosalind reached over and flicked the wayward hair out of his line of sight. "Nothing a good haircut won't fix. We can get that at the next bandage change. No need to fuss." There was a slight tremble building under her hand. Excitement would only make things worse, and it was already showing in the falling apart of the sentence structure.

His eyes gazed out at the room, searching for something. "Christine?"

"She's downstairs, changing her clothing. You see that's another reason for this. I've got fresh clothing for you after I'm done. I'm sure your wife will be up shortly, she always comes straight here."

"Here?" The eyes drifted about the walls. "Where … here … "

Poor Erik, how many times had they told him now? "You're in your home. In the other wing. Don't you worry. See? See the columns you carved?"

It took him a long time for the shaking gaze to follow where she pointed. But at last his eyes settled on shadows of the wall. He took several measured breaths before murmuring, "I carved … " The sentence hung in the air for a long time as he closed his eyes, almost looking as though sleep had reclaimed him. " … that … " Wearily his eyes reopened.

"Yes." She picked up a towel, she would only get this half of him done before the pain made him senseless. It was good enough for now. After carefully drying him she picked up the fresh gown and lifted his arm, guiding it through the sleeve. He offered her no resistance, allowing the limb to remain slack in her grasp. Lifting his other arm, she found the same supple nature as he merely studied her actions in silence. Tucking the lower edge of the gown beneath the covers she tugged them up to his chest, leaving both his arms above the blanket.

"Alright, let's get those wrists dressed." With a clean cloth she soaked it in the silver nitrate, and rubbed the wounds. Erik lay still, studying every motion she made, all the way up to her tying the bandages upon his wrists.

Pushing back from the bed, she grinned down at him. "There we are." He was already breathing a little harder than before, signs of the codeine's effects wearing off. The pain registering in his slowly blinking eyes.

She took up a bowl of broth, bringing it up close for him. This time he didn't reach for it, his hands remained at rest upon the bed. He let her hold it for him as he drank it down steadily. "Get this in you quick before … " She sighed. "I'm so sorry, Erik. I wish we could keep the pain at bay longer. You just have to be patient. A few more days and the worst should be over."

His fingers gently encircled her wrist as she withdrew the empty bowl. A slow shuddered breath entered him, his eyes meeting hers before he closed them. The grip intensified on her hand and she knew by the panted whimper that escaped him what was happening. The window had opened and shut … leaving him to ride out the storm.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9**_

 _Keep to the western wing and the kitchens on the first floor, the remainder of the mansion is off limits._ The phrase echoed in his mind as Wright climbed the elaborately carved staircase to the third floor of the eastern wing … the living space of this very odd family. This wasn't the first time he had trespassed about the hallways, examining the beautiful stonework inside the mansion. It was merely the farthest he had dared to wander. He knew very little about architecture, whether a building was considered Gothic or Beaux Arts dwelt well beyond his knowledge. But he did know when something was extraordinary. This mansion undeniably fit that description. The details in the scroll-work and the uncountable friezes were breathtaking. Each hallway he explored bore a new array of creatures, real and fantastical, peering out at him from the curving branches of various forest scapes. It was purely magical.

In the third floor hall, the scaled hide of an immense dragon comprised the bulk of one mural. His head arched back, framed by a set of spread wings preparing for flight. Between his front feet pranced a unicorn, brandishing his horn like a lance up towards the dragon's head, the mane billowing in the air. At first glance, Wright assumed the beasts had been warring. Stepping back from the frieze, his eyes caught a star burst above the heads of the beasts, a great fiery bird he assumed to be the mythical phoenix emerging in the carved rays of light. The magical beasts seemed to be frozen in the midst of some ritual devised by the artist's mind.

Staring in awe at the figures of stone, his eyes caught the faint flicker of light through the nearby doorway. Cautiously, he crept towards the wall, peeking his head into the open door. The moment his eyes took in the room his jaw dropped.

Beneath the high ceiling stretched an elaborate laboratory. It wasn't quite as sophisticated as the one at the hospital, but it was undoubtedly the most complete private one he had ever stood in. Several rows of benches were packed with equipment and strange inventions in various stages of completion. Rows of cases lined the walls containing chemicals, compounds, and contraptions, some of which he had no idea what they might possibly do. Leather bound books and dogeared journals were everywhere, many of them cast upon the counter tops in disarray. The journals … they were all written in the finest penmanship he had ever seen, the slope revealing a left-hand behind their creation. Regretfully, they appeared to be entirely in French, a language he did not know.

Absentmindedly, Wright's feet carried him into the lab toward the flickering of a burner heating a beaker of water. The sound of a mortar and pestle grinding herbs drew him closer. He discovered the Persian with his back turned to him, leaning heavily on the crutches. He bent over, consulting the journal laid out beside him. As he emptied the contents of the mortar into the boiling water, he muttered, "That should be everything. Good, now it will take over an hour to boil into solution."

"I didn't know you were a chemist," Wright remarked.

Turning in surprise, Nadir almost lost a crutch in his shock. "What—what are you doing in here? You shouldn't be in his laboratory!"

"His?" An eyebrow raised at the revelation. Walking up to the counter he looked at the pages of the journal wishing he had bothered to learn French. "You mean this is Erik's laboratory?"

"Everything in this house belongs to Erik, built by his whim for his use." Nadir cast his eyes about the room. "He allowed me in here from time to time to administer to his needs when he was indisposed. Erik taught me essentially what I needed to know to work from his careful notes."

Lingering in this homage to the sciences, Wright turned a page in the journal only to find Nadir hastily shutting the leather bound volume on his hand.

"He would not like you privy to his observations," he replied curtly. "Erik always was highly protective of his studies."

"Studies?" Wright's eyes shifted to some of the machines and devices scattered about the room. Could it be he had never seen such things because these particular inventions were the manifestations of the mind he had performed surgery on? "What manner of studies?"

Hanging his head, Nadir relented to the persistence. The ache in his leg ate at his resolve. "Ever since I have known him, he has been extremely inquisitive about how the world works. His innovations have resulted in tinctures and solutions that can cure ailments in half the time of traditional treatments, to a number of astonishing creations of machinery I could not even begin to explain. He was especially fond of bending the laws of physics in a highly artistic fashion. That's what made him an extraordinary magician." He shrugged looking about the dusty laboratory. "Erik's once tireless persistence produced some of the strangest illusions I had born witness to. Nothing seemed to be beyond his grasp. That was … until he lost his grip on sanity." With a hard swallow, he hung his head. "He tried everything, he fought so hard to chase it back … but even he couldn't find a way to stop the madness from consuming him."

Wright gave a short laugh. "That should be no surprise now. Nothing can stop the growth of a tumor except surgical removal. Now … if the man had performed brain surgery on himself, that really would have been something!"

"Don't give him any ideas." Snorted Nadir, with a slight scowl at the doctor.

Studying a contraption of wires and glass, Wright shook his head, unable to imagine the use. "He must have had a lot of time on his hands, I mean, that face of his probably kept him holed up a lot."

He missed Nadir's flinch at the words. "You belittle him by concentrating on a flaw. Erik was a genius in every sense of the word. I swear he was capable of creating time with his own hands."

Curiosity overcame the doctor, his finger reaching up to brush against the metal wire. A bright arch snapped out at the fingertip causing him to yowl and leap back in shock.

Snickering, Nadir shook his head. "Erik's words of warning: never touch anything you are not prepared to understand, even at the price of pain."

"What the hell was that?" He narrowed his eyes, still holding his throbbing finger.

"I have no idea." He smiled slowly. "That's why I don't touch Erik's devices. As I said, he had an insatiable hunger for knowledge and that meant many of his experiments came with great risks involved, something he rarely shied away from. Chances are strong some of these machines are quite deadly."

There were dozens upon dozens of strange apparatuses throughout the laboratory. "Do they all work?"

His eyes drifted to a darkened corner, losing focus. "At one time, yes … now, I'm not so certain. After Erik endured a tragic hallucination in here he nearly leveled the entire room trying to kill … " He paused for a long moment, unsure of how to say it. "It's going to sound strange … he was trying to kill himself."

Wright blinked as he turned his bewildered gaze to the Persian. "Suicide?"

"No." He sighed. "I told you this would sound strange. He was trying to save us from a manifestation of his former self. The one you faced in that cellar room." Morosely, he laid his hand on the journal. "That happened fairly early into us noticing something was wrong. He had enough time to put things back into order within the laboratory and repair some of the devices his tirade had broken. Once it became evident to him that his sanity was truly slipping away, he spent nearly every waking moment in here frantically fighting for a cure — for Erik, who rarely slept when consumed by an obsession, that meant a lot of time. It was painful to watch him squinting in the light of the gas burner. The light in his eyes reflecting the desperate revelation that he was gradually losing everything."

There was nothing Wright could say in reply. Standing within this room, he tried to count the number of journals marked with the unique penmanship on the spine only to discover another stack once he had thought himself done. What secrets lie within the covers of these books? If only he could read French they would be at his disposal. All he had seen of Erik was evidence of a raving lunatic behind the deformed face of a monster. That alone provided an interesting basis for a scientific paper. But … if there was more to this man. If he restored this man to his brilliance … what discussions could they have by the fireside! All the sudden he was giddy at the prospect of getting Erik to the state where he was capable of extended conversation.

Nadir reached down and rubbed his leg. "Thankfully, he wrote down many of his recipes ages ago. I hope this old pain remedy of his will do a better job then what the doctor gave me. If it does, it will be worth the effort of hobbling up to this floor."

Looking down at the closed book, Wright cocked his head. "Would you considering translating those for me?"

"No," he replied bluntly, his eyes narrowed. "This is Erik's laboratory, all that lies within the walls is precious to him. If he desires the world to know what he has discovered, that is his decision, and his alone. By allowing you and countless previous doctors into his personal domain to lay eyes upon his bare face we have already compromised his desire for privacy. It was clearly necessary, but knowing Erik as well as I do he will be hard-pressed to view that in such a way."

Crushed, Wright heaved a sigh. Pulling out his pocket watch he observed the time. "I should probably get back downstairs. It's getting close to the time I should check our esteemed friend."

Nadir turned back to the boiling solution. "Doctor. I must remind you before you find yourself mistaken. You are no _friend_ of Erik's … at least he will be very unlikely to see you as such."

* * *

Erik lay on his back, propped up against a number of pillows. The change in the elevation of his head had been unsettling at first, perhaps a day or two ago while he had been sleeping? Time was still bloody difficult to determine in the closed off confines of the dimly lit room. His attempts to begin to track the passage of time were ever aborted by the inevitable welling of the pain. It was always a tentative guess how long he could stand to try and think before his eyes were blinded by the throbbing nightmare. All he could do was vaguely compare the intensity of the building waves when they came … they were growing weaker each time, coming at ever greater intervals. His precious consciousness was gradually permitted to remain for a greater duration.

Gravity still defeated him. Any attempt to lift his head was rewarded with an agonizing dizzy spell. By now he had learned the lesson sufficient not to even try it. All he could do was exist in this darkened room, in this miserable sickbed, in this aggravating state of confusion. Around him paraded a number of figures, mainly women dressed in white who changed their faces each time he was forced to close his eyes. Dismally, he had realized that notion was ridiculous! There was a simpler explanation, more than one person was out there poking and prodding his prone body. They had told him more than once that he had been ill, there had been a procedure to save his life. They had told him he was getting better every day. He couldn't remember much of anything before this; not of how he had gotten here, what had happened to his wrists and his ankles, why his head was in so much unGodly pain. Worst of all, why was he so incredibly weak? No one explained anything to him, they just assured him his health was improving, like that should make everything all right.

His eyes drifted to the chair at the bedside where Christine stirred, she woke up with a soft smile on her face. "Good evening, Erik." Her voice was intentionally quiet as she leaned forward and embraced his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Dreadful," he muttered. "My wrist itches."

"You know you can't scratch it." She offered with a sympathetic gaze. "Your eyes are nice and clear right now."

He sighed, blinking slowly in the faint light of the wall sconces. Was it just him or had the gas flow increased? It seemed just a little brighter in here. "Good, another … " The word had vanished from his mind. "Damn it!" Gripping the blanket he closed his eyes trying to force it to come back to him.

Gently she massaged his hand. "Shh. Don't fight like that, you need to stay calm."

"Easy for you to say." He rolled his eyes.

"Erik dear. I know this isn't easy for you. But you need to remember. You're still healing. I don't care if it takes you a while to say something. I can wait."

Slowly, he turned his bruised eyes back to her. Taking a few long breaths, he reached his other hand over and draped it on hers. "You did … you waited for me. I know you did … but where … where was I?"

"Don't be silly." Her smile was bittersweet. "You've been here all along."

"But … " His thoughts circled around the phrase he had heard whispered in the darkness, so often when his eyes were on the verge of opening. "I keep hearing … I came back. Back … from where?" His words shifted from English to French and back again.

A tear rolled down from her eyes. "It's a very long story, Erik. You're not ready for it yet. I promise you, I swear to you, when you are strong enough I will tell you everything."

"Christine … "

Holding a finger to his lips she shook her head solemnly. "Trust me. You are not ready for this, yet." Lifting his hand, she kissed the back of it. "You'll be up and back to your old self before you know it."

He hated to hear that. It sounded as though any minute she believed he could leap out of the bed and sweep her off her feet. As weak as he was, it would take ages to rebuild his strength … if he ever did.

The door opened and a shaft of light from the hall entered the room. Erik groaned and his eyes snapped shut against it. That was too bright for him to bear. When the door shut, he gradually opened his eyes to the approach of a strange man he vaguely recalled glimpsing before.

"How is the patient today?" Wright grinned down from the bedside.

All it earned him was a silent glare from Erik.

Christine patted Erik's hand. "Feeling a bit better, aren't you, dear. Look, not nearly as much wincing. He's been awake for a while, talking."

"Good." Wright clapped his hands together.

The sound resulted in Erik squeezing her hand against the discomfort of the sudden sound.

But the doctor was far too giddy to remember that his patient still was sound sensitive. "I must say, Erik, the surgical procedure to remove the brain tumor seems to have been a marvelous success." He reached out and took Erik's hand from Christine, poking rudely at the reflex points.

Erik blinked up at him, as wide-eyed as the swollen lids would permit. "Excuse me? Did you say … " He lost the words in the shock.

Tapping along his arm, Wright was grinning. "So much stronger! The swelling is obviously abating, restoring the nerve channels."

Frantically, Erik turned his gaze to Christine when the doctor neglected to answer him. "Christine?" His voice cracked as he slipped into pure French. "What did he do to me?"

She was about to reply when Wright tugged the covers back exposing Erik's frail legs. Picking up one of the ankles he found a strong impulse as Erik pulled back mortified at the sudden grasp, especially so close to the raw flesh beneath the bandages.

"Well now! That is an astonishing improvement! Fantastic. With that kind of response we should be able to have him on his feet in no time at all. I imagine you'll want to be sitting by a hearth sipping tea and chatting away the evenings." Bringing his hands together, Wright eagerly smiled.

All Erik could do was stare up at the man, frozen beneath the strangely invasive behavior of the surgeon. What was wrong with this man, for heaven's sake, was nothing sacred?

Whipping the covers back over Erik, Christine took his hand and tried to steal his attention back to her. She watched as his other hand slowly gripped the edge of the blanket and held tight in obvious discomfort. Not physical discomfort. Erik was clearly deeply unnerved by the manners of the surgeon as he departed out of the room with inappropriate glee.

"Erik? Look at me," she called to him. "You're alright."

His eyes trembled a bit as he met hers. "He … he cut my skull … open?"

Timorously, she nodded.

His finger pointed shakily at the door. "You let … _that_ man … take a saw … to my head?"

Quietly she murmured, "It was a chisel, actually."

His eyes widened again, overwhelmed. No words were coming to him. What kind of barbarian takes a chisel to live bone? That takes a special kind of madness! Chisels were for carving things like wood, or stone … they were most certainly not for breaking into the cavity that held the brain of a live human being!

"Erik," Christine patted his hand. "Erik, you need to blink."

At last he shut his eyes, taking a long shuddering breath. That explained everything! It excused none of it, but now he gravely wished he hadn't been told by the bungling surgeon. Unfortunately, there was no unlearning that startling bit of news.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10**_

Erik growled through clenched teeth, "Touch me with another needle and I swear I will hit you!" Lying on his right side with both arms beneath the blanket, he had firmly secured the edge of the covering with his hands. Trembling with fury, he glared up with a wary hostility at Lucy who was trying to pry the fabric loose from his fingers.

"Let go!" She grunted as she tugged, only now realizing that Erik had rolled some of the blanket beneath his shoulder, trapping it effectively. "Damn it, it's time for your next lithium dose, and by God, do you need it! Why do you always have to wake up in a such vile mood!"

Pulling the blanket tighter, he shot back, "Why can't you leave me alone! Go away!"

"Stop this demented struggling! You need your medicine." Lucy locked eyes with him, staring back rudely.

Molly crossed the room, her eyes narrowing at the bitter struggle that would do their patient no good at all. The poor man was understandably growing weary of the routine, especially after the shocking revelation of his condition earlier today. Erik's stamina was heavily rationed at the moment, and if he wasn't careful, he would spend it all in one desperate act of resistance. She had to put a stop to this.

"I'm not a _broches cusion_!" he snapped.

At the inclusion of the French words, Molly knew Erik's anxiety was reaching a breaking point. They had discovered that currently it was taking him a great deal of concentration to not drift back into his native tongue. Stepping forward, she cut off Lucy just as she was about to speak. "Go fetch Rosalind."

"But, her shift just ended!" Lucy let go of her hold on the blanket. "She's probably getting ready for bed."

With a stern glare, Molly pointed to the door. "You created this mess. She's about the only one who can get him to cooperate now that you've whipped him up into a frenzy. Unless you want to go knock on his wife's bedchamber waking her from a rare sleep and explain what you did."

In a huff, she turned and left the room, leaving Molly under Erik's wary stare. His grip on the blanket was not relaxing, nor was his expression. She knew better than to reach down and try anything, it would only make him less compliant.

"I don't blame you." She sighed. "But she is right, you do need it."

He closed his eyes, concentrating hard. "I don't care!"

The door opened and Rosalind slipped in, her hair trailing down in a disheveled mess over her plain night gown. All day, he had been in a highly volatile state after that foolish bleating by Wright. Keeping Erik calm had taken a greater deal of finesse, leaving her drained. It had been less than an hour since Lucy had relieved her. And even then, she had been concerned how well the night would go.

Molly crossed the room, catching her by the arm and whispering, "Sorry to wake you, dear. But he's hunkered down pretty tight in there. Hoping you can coax him out."

She rubbed her eyes with a yawn. "Let me guess, Lucy tried to rush things. Let me see what I can do."

As she approached the bed, Erik's eyes remained locked on Lucy who lurked by the door. Sitting down in the chair at the bedside, Rosalind waited a moment for his heated gaze to drift to her. "What's wrong, Erik?" she patiently whispered.

His kept his hold on the shielding blanket. "She wants to stab me."

"You mean Lucy?" Rosalind glanced over her shoulder. "I don't see a knife here, what was she going to stab you with?"

His eyes darted to the loaded syringe on the table.

"Ah. I see." She nodded. "So it was time for your injection again."

"I don't want it." He pulled the covers tighter, the phrase in French.

Fortunately for Rosalind, through the aid of Christine she was beginning to pick up the more common phrases he would blurt out. "Erik, the lithium is essential right now. Remember what I told you earlier? It's helping to stabilize the mood swings you were suffering from."

He shut his eyes, shaking. "I'm fine!"

Raising an eyebrow she crossed her arms loosely. "You're hiding in a blanket. This isn't fine, Erik."

He curled a little tighter, not quite able to manage curling into a ball beneath the covers as he muttered in forceful English. "I don't like how it makes me feel … my thoughts are foggy as it is!"

She didn't dare reach out yet. This was going to take a bit to break through. Rubbing her eyes she sighed. "This won't last forever. I promise. Just long enough we can be certain that you are stable again. Alright? We'll taper it off as soon as we can."

Beneath the covers she saw his finger's shifting before he murmured, "My arms hurt."

Well, that was a valid complaint. By now there were so many pocked bruises from the injection sites they had been running out of muscle on both his arms, the sites getting ever closer together.

Leaning forward, she laid her hand on the edge of the bed. "Tell you what. If you let me do it without a fuss, I'll let you tell me where you want it. Then, I'll go straight to Wright's room and wake him up from his beauty sleep and see if we can't switch to a different manner of administering things. Do we have a deal?"

His eyes stared at her hand for a long time before there was any sign of response. Molly, who had been watching from a distance, out of his line of sight, began to wonder if he had even heard Rosalind. Then, ever so slowly, she watched as Erik's iron grip on the blanket relaxed, his fingers appearing under the edge.

Taking up the syringe in her hand, Rosalind reached over and gently exposed his arm. "Just point to a place that won't bother you as much."

Erik was weary from the fight, a trembling finger trailed up his arm until he tentatively settled it on a narrow space of unmarred skin. Rapidly he shut his eyes, a quiet whimper escaping him as the needle punctured the skin.

Massaging the sore muscle with gentle strokes, Rosalind whispered, "I know you're tired of this, Erik. I understand your frustration. But, no one is trying to torture you. We're only doing what you need to get better. As swiftly as we can we'll do away with all this. Try to be patient a while longer." Releasing his arm, she set the syringe aside. "Now, I made you a promise and I'm going to fulfill it. Time for me to go rudely wake Doctor Wright."

Reaching over, Rosalind picked up an empty metal basin and cast Erik a conspiratorial grin. "Do you think this will make a loud enough noise if I drop it beside his bed?"

It was faint, but Molly swore she saw the trace of a smile momentarily on Erik's face. Pausing on her way to door, Rosalind leaned over and whispered to Molly. "Do me a favor, don't leave Lucy alone with him tonight. I know that means you'll have to stay up longer. I'll try to rise earlier to relieve you."

"No dear." Molly placed a hand on her shoulder. "You need your rest too. I can handle a long one. I'll make sure she does not go anywhere near him with anything sharp, including her tongue!"

Hefting the basin, Rosalind chuckled. "Alright. Time for a little rude awakening for the doctor. I think he's earned it!"

Molly winked, "Leave the door wide open so we can hear him down the hall."

"Oh, you'll hear him, whether or not the door is shut!"

* * *

The light from the crystal chandelier cascaded down, catching the fine bead work on her evening gown. Christine guiltily tugged on the edges of the light cloak as she lingered in the foyer.

"You look stunning, as always." Damrosch reached forward and adjusted her elegant hairpin, tucking a few strands back. "You can relax, he'll be fine."

Her eyes gazed vaguely back in the direction of Erik's sickroom, even though it was in the other wing. "I don't feel right leaving him alone, not after how upset he was yesterday. Last night after I went to bed he got really irate with one of the nurses."

"He won't be alone." He held a hand to his chest. "That's why I'm here. Honestly, I can hardly blame him for not taking that news well. Heh, had someone just blurted that out to me, I highly doubt my reaction would be any better. Considering how long things have been … well … turbulent, I would say he's handling it about as well as can be expected."

Bowing her head, she fussed with the lace ruffle on her neckline. "I'm so sorry to have inconvenienced you, Damrosch. I just didn't know what to do."

He gave an easy chuckle. "Christine. Stop apologizing. I agree with you, poor Nadir needs a day or two in his bed, stay off that leg and let that concoction of a pain reliever catch up. I sincerely hope it works for him. Besides, I don't mind missing the concert. It's not like I haven't attended every other year. You go and sing your heart out for him. I'll make sure he wakes to someone he knows … that is, if he remembers me."

Placing a hand on his, she shook her head. "I had hoped to be in the room the first time he awoke to find you there. He seems to remember a lot of general things I have asked him about. But he hasn't actually seen you yet." She hesitated. "Damrosch, I shouldn't be going. He needs me here."

He gripped her elbows, looking down into her eyes solemnly. "I think you need to perform for two reasons. One is that rumors are once more beginning to circulate about where Erik is. Only just today I had someone ask me in the Hall why they haven't seen him perform in well over a year. I told them the usual story about him being in Europe on extended business and that I had only just received a letter from him last week. He was enjoying the lovely weather in Naples. Luckily, the couple seemed to believe me. They need to see you out there like nothing has happened. Secondly, and far more importantly, I think you need to do this for yourself. You and Erik are kindred spirits. Music is solace for the both of you. While he has suffered over the course of this ailment, so have you. Rarely do I see your acknowledgment of that fact." He gave her a slight smile. "Go on. Take a little time for yourself. You need this without feeling a shred of guilt."

Hesitantly she nodded. "Very well, Maestro."

"Erik would want you to do this." He brushed her cheek, offering an encouraging smile. "Go sing for him."

For the first time this afternoon he saw her smile. "Rosalind should be there the whole time, she doesn't rush him like the others tend to. They switched things this morning, started giving him tinctures instead of injections … he was getting so dreadfully sore."

He nodded. "I saw his arms the last time."

Laying a hand on his arm she added. "Oh, this is very important. When he starts to have trouble keeping his words in English, he's getting agitated. Usually there will be a number of French words slipping out. He really needs to stay calm right now."

Opening the door for her, he nodded his head in the direction of the waiting carriage. "And you need to be on your way. It's only until early this evening. Everything will be fine. Have a good time."

Lingering in the doorway, he watched as she climbed into the carriage before it drove out onto the cobblestone street. Closing the heavy oak door, he heaved a sigh. "I knew that was going to be quite a task convincing her to go."

Climbing the main staircase, he glanced in the direction of Erik's darkened study, wishing that was where he was headed … for an idle chat with his friend, or perhaps an inspired session of composing music. Instead, the room that was once the center of Erik's life was eerily silent.

Turning down the hall, he wandered into the western wing feeling the weight of his thoughts pulling his shoulders down. Opening the sickroom door, he slipped inside swiftly so as not to admit much light … only to discover several drapes had been drawn back, admitting the bright afternoon sunlight. His eyes darted to the bed. Erik had been settled on his right side. By his lax hand hanging slightly over the edge, he could tell his friend was soundly sleeping.

A slight pressure on his shoulder stole his attention. He looked up to find Rosalind pressing a finger to her lips. "Shh. He'll be sleeping for a while longer yet under the influence of the codeine. The longer he rests, the longer I can let some light in the room."

He nodded and quietly crossed the room, studying Erik's sleeping form. His complexion looked a little better, not quite so sickly white. Of course, the tiny bruises on his arms had more than tripled since last he had seen him. Thank God that was over with. Something else was different … oh yes, someone had cut his hair back to the way he had always worn it. Just long enough to be slightly feathered. His eyes drifted to the nightstand where they found a length of silver braid tied at both ends with a black ribbon. Christine must have done that before they cut it off. He admitted quietly to himself, Erik had looked dreadful with that mess of overgrown hair.

Rosalind drifted by, waving him into the bedside chair. "I've been opening the room up the last couple of days when I knew he wouldn't open his eyes suddenly."

"How long will that last?" Damrosch glanced up at her. "God, I remember him telling me how much the stage lights bothered him so long ago."

All she could offer was a shrug. "Hard to say. But already we have turned the lights up in slow increments and he doesn't seem to be bothered. We'll just have to keep the pace gradual so it doesn't hurt him." Glancing at the clock, she smiled. "He should sleep for another hour. I'm just going to run down to the kitchen and grab him something for when he wakes. When I come back, I'll need to shut the drapes."

After she departed, Damrosch leaned back in the chair watching the breeze stirring the heavy drapes. Outside, the birdsong layered over the passing of horse drawn carriages. The world drifted on by, hardly guessing what was going on in here. Sadly, his eyes drifted back to observe the slow rise and fall of Erik's chest beneath the covers. For so long … his life had ground to an abrupt halt. Damrosch wondered, not for the first time, how would things proceed from here?

Soundlessly, Rosalind slipped back into the room with a fairly large tankard in her hand. Placing it on the table without comment, she began to tie the drapes shut one by one. Gradually the bright room darkened, cast once more in the essential shadows.

A short time later, Erik released a quiet groan before his eyes began to open. The lids fluttered briefly before he gave a pronounced slow blink at the figure in the chair. "Damrosch?"

Leaning forward with a warm smile, he touched his hand. "Yes, I'm here, Erik. It's good to be recognized again."

"What … what are you doing here?" Erik's drowsy voice betrayed that he was only half awake.

"Christine wanted to make sure you didn't wake up alone."

"Oh," he muttered, "that's usually why you come … because she asks … because I am … what was I saying?"

Chuckling, Damrosch gave his hand a pat. "Finish waking up before you try to speak."

"Yes … I should do that." Shutting his eyes he took a few slow breaths.

Rosalind quietly moved in, picking up the tankard. "This might help fortify you a bit. Something different than just that broth."

Opening his eyes to the tankard, he eyed it in confusion. "What the hell is that?"

"A nice hearty ale."

With the jerky wave of a hand Erik retorted, "I drink wines, not ales."

The characteristic remark made Damrosch chuckle. Well, he remembered that much!

She shook her head with a firm smile, still patiently holding out the tankard. "Not right now, you don't. This is better for you at the moment, rather a liquid bread."

"That sounds appetizing," Erik remarked sarcastically. "How about some actual bread."

"Not until you can sit up. Honestly, you might like this. It's surprisingly good." Edging her hand under the pillow, she used it to slowly lift his head to an angle he could drink at.

At last Erik relented, his thirst overcoming any apparent reluctance to the inferior drink. It wasn't long before the tankard was empty. Carefully she shifted the pillows beneath him, settling him a little higher on his right side. Wordlessly, Rosalind whisked the tankard out of the way.

"Alright." He sighed. "I have to admit … but don't you dare tell anyone, that was actually a nice change."

"No reason to tell anyone." Damrosch grinned. "Wouldn't want to spoil your image."

Erik's eyes drifted aimlessly for a moment, clearly a thought had captured his attention. Slowly his hand drifted up towards his face. The moment it touched bare flesh, he completely froze. "Oh no! My mask!"

"Easy! Easy!" Damrosch leapt out of the chair, placing a hand on Erik's shoulder as the panic seized him. Rosalind was right behind him. "Erik, it's alright. You could hardly wear it over the bandages. Besides, I've already seen your face. There's nothing to hide. This isn't the first time I have been here at your bedside."

In between shuddering breaths, a few French words drifted into the air before Erik quelled the panic enough to concentrate. "It … it doesn't repulse you?"

Shaking his head, he took Erik's hand. "No. I understand the reason for the mask now … but I respect the man who wears it too much to be bothered with a mere appearance. So, not another word about it."

Gradually the tension released, the waning panic drained from his eyes.

Sitting back in the chair, Damrosch caught a relieved smile as Rosalind drifted by, pretending to be busy. He had to distract Erik from the shameful topic. There had to be something that might lift his spirits, if even a little. Oh yes. "Christine will be back in a little while. You know where she is?"

Erik's response was but a weary blink.

"She's at a concert this afternoon, singing her heart out."

Was that the twitch of a smile starting?

Waving his hand in the air like he was directing, Damrosch continued. "She's singing a beautiful aria you wrote. Oh, what was the name of it? The one about silver moonlight … " Of course he knew the name, this was a good chance for Erik to drag something up from his memory.

Closing his eyes, he whispered out after a lengthy pause, " _Des larmes au clair de lune._ It means moonlit tears in French."

"My God, Erik, she sounded so angelic when she practiced at the Hall. That piece is suited for her voice."

Lifting his hand ever so slightly off the bed, Erik's distant reply was accompanied by a soft smile. "That's because I wrote it for her."

Keep him thinking of the music, keep his thoughts on the pleasant memories of the past. It's what they both needed right now, an escape from the torment of their reality.

Softly, Damrosch began to hum the melody just letting the wistful notes linger in the air. At first it was very quiet, almost too quiet to hear … but Erik's own voice was humming along, drifting with the aria's languid movement. His eyes were loosely closed as his hand hovered in the air subtly moving to the underlying rhythm.

It was the first moment in well over a year that Damrosch had seen anything akin to bliss displayed by Erik. It almost broke his heart to think how long ago it had been. The melody came to its end. As Erik opened his eyes, he heaved a sigh. He still looked so tired, the lids drooping in the dim room.

Rosalind set her hand on his shoulder. "Looks like someone is still paying for last night's overexertion. Erik, close your eyes, try to get some rest."

He wasn't even fighting it. With a yawn, he shut his eyes, his breathing gradually settling.

"Sweet dreams." Rosalind whispered into his ear.

Leaning back in the chair, Damrosch allowed himself a small smile. At least Erik looked peaceful now, what a change from before … perhaps there was hope yet.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11**_

Bright daylight flooded the room of the recently drugged patient, providing Wright with the perfect opportunity for a rather lengthy collection of his thoughts about this rather remarkable case. It was only made better by the fact that neither the intrusive wife nor the overly-protective Persian were present. Both were downstairs eating, leaving only nurse Foster in attendance. Sitting in the chair with his notebook in his lap, he was muttering aloud to himself as he wrote.

 _Case study beginning April of the year 1899. Patient is a male of French descent living in Manhattan, approximately in his late sixties, presenting an unusual birth deformity (notes immediately to follow). Patient's name is Erik, no surname. Diagnosed with a benign encapsulated meningeal tumor located central of the frontal bone extending marginally between the hemispheres of the brain. Patient exhibited signs of severe increase in cranial pressure._

 _General history. Patient presents with marked abnormalities. Immediately evident was a deficiency in adipose tissue throughout the body, reported by family …_

Wright cocked his head for a moment. The Persian … would he really be considered family? There was no way he would have been directly related to either the patient or the wife. The association only now seemed rather odd. Well, perhaps just another peculiarity within this mansion. He resumed his previous train of thought in the notebook.

… _patient has always maintained a marked gracile appearance despite a regular practice of manual labor, architect and stone mason. Apparently prior to the decline of his mental health, patient was markedly stronger then he appeared. Patient is taller than the average male, with an elongated bone structure suggesting rapid growth in juvenile years. Skin bears a pale complexion, recently made more pronounced by the current ailment. The most apparent abnormality presents itself on the patient's face. It appears as though the deficiency in adipose tissue is extreme within this region. Starting at the hair line and spreading down to the maxilla and zygomatic region, the epidermis is almost paper thin, lacking elasticity and bulk. This birth deformity leaves the impressions of the structures underneath visible in relief upon the insufficient epidermal layers. There is also a complete absence of the nasal septum and the corresponding epidermis, leaving the patient effectively deficient of a nose. The eyes have been affected, the natural setting reported to be sunken into the sockets. Internal swelling from cranial pressure has altered current presentation to within normal limits, thus I have yet to observe the patient's natural setting. Patient exhibits_ _heterochromia iridis_ _, his right iris is dark brown and his left is dilute blue. Family reports patient possessed excellent vision prior to decline: partial blindness in dilute eye as has been noted in some patients. Patient's dexterity was also noted as extremely fluid and fine, he is noted as favoring his left hand. Cognitively patient was considered a genius in various fields with a concentration on architecture, scientific studies, and music where he was a composer._

Setting the pen down, Wright rubbed his eyes with frustration. He had previously wandered back up to the laboratory in hopes of borrowing one or two of the journals. He had discovered an immense library in the eastern wing where he hoped to find a book that may permit him to translate. That blasted Persian! Sometime before his second visit, every journal had been painstakingly gathered from the workbenches and neatly secured behind the locked door of a tall cabinet. Of course the door had a window, teasing the doctor with the precious contents! All the printed editions of the reference books still were accessible, but he already possessed many of those in his own collection. Most of the devices had remained in their original locations. However, Wright dared not to touch another one, his finger still bore the blister from his first experience. Picking the pen back up, he went on, still muttering aloud.

 _History of physical trauma evident in scar between ribs and additional scars across back, both suggest juvenile injuries due to evidence of skin stretching with growth. Patient also has known history of functional opiate addiction in forms of opium and morphine. Combined lifetime estimate of addiction was approximated to be forty years, patient underwent a forced withdrawal in 1891 and has apparently not engaged in the habit since. Patient's healing factor seems to have counteracted any lasting damage the use may have accumulated. It is noted patient has been prone to bouts of insomnia and suddenly shifting mood swings, including some noted paranoia throughout known lifetime. Family attributes this to the patient's life experiences, related to the mask he wore to cover the worst of his visible abnormality._

 _Concerning the recent diagnosis of his tumor, within the period of the last two and a half years the patient exhibited an array of unusual behaviors: headaches, extreme and worsening light sensitivity, muscle tremors, seizures, hallucinations accompanied by violent outbursts, with an eventual personality change culminating in a full blown hostile psychosis involving a deeply seated delusion isolating a past time frame of the patient's life. Family was forced to restrain patient physically in fortified room for safety of all those involved._

 _Previous colleagues have been consulted in nearly every field of science. Prior to my arrival there was no satisfactory diagnosis or improvement in the patient's chronic psychotic state._

Wright allowed himself a haughty smile. This case took his special hand!

 _Upon observing the patient within his unfortunate condition, I immediately observed in addition to the previously noted the symptoms, that his iris function varied dependent upon head tilt. Patient presented an inability to properly use his lower extremities due to the pressure on the nerve pathways cutting off the signal. Patient also repeatedly exhibited signs of distress, despite his aggressive state, in the gesture of seizing the hair on his forehead and pulling. The majority of the time communication with the patient was disrupted by inappropriate laughter, which was eventually noted to be an improperly channeled expression of pain. Communication also included one other peculiarity: upon entering the room, a visitor was always addressed in the Persian language until a specific member of the family, the only one recognized by the patient, requested he speak otherwise — this had to be done in the Persian tongue or it was ignored. From that point onwards, the patient was capable of speaking an effected version of English, but reported never before the request, once the onset of the psychosis. Patient is reported to have mastered numerous languages, once more yet to be seen as he recovers, suspect exaggeration of true abilities._

 _Final diagnosis was obtained by applying pressure to the forehead. The sudden increase resulted in a dramatic acute manic outburst that was absent when applied to the base of the skull. Reaction was extreme._

Shuddering, Wright had to put the pen down for a moment as he recalled how violently Erik had thrashed within the chains. He had only seen one other patient prior to this with such a low threshold for an episode. That patient had been his mentor's at the university … that patient had not survived the surgery.

Taking a steadying breath, he skimmed the last paragraph before continuing on.

 _Surgery was determined as vital for the patient within the shortest time possible, and would commence within the patient's own home, where prior attempts at curing his affliction had resulted in rooms resembling a hospital. Concern was for the patient's privacy and comfort during recovery. Family would not relent on this issue._

 _Immediately prior to the procedure, patient had experienced a seizure. Was discovered in a full postictal state, negated the requirement for sedation to reach the surgical room._

 _Procedure involved a single central hole in the mid region of the frontal bone. Diagnosis proved to have located the precise position of the tumor._

Once more Wright was grinning, "Could not have gone better!"

 _No complications within the surgical extraction of the unattached tumor, save extra care required when stitching the brittle skin. Leaving stitches in one more week than usual to ensure healing has occurred. Opted to not proceed with replacing bone within two months of first surgery due to concerns over skin integrity. Patient wears mask over the effected area which should provide protection for resulting soft spot._

 _Eleven days post operation, patient has steadily regained consciousness. After acceptable period of swelling accompanied by intense pain (controlled with high doses of injected codeine) I have begun to taper off the pain medication, and changed to administration via tincture. Lithium has also been administered at regular intervals to assist in controlling any remaining psychosis. There is some evidence of mild hostility remaining. Patient remains on a strict liquid diet, is gradually being elevated and exposed to greater intensity of light. Patient's reflexive impulses are returning most dramatically in the lower extremities where they were most suppressed. However, due to muscle atrophy resulting from required bed rest, the time of full recovery will be long term._

 _Prognosis is strong, as patient is demonstrating increasing abilities to communicate. Also noted is a slight increase in muscular coordination._

 _Tomorrow we will begin the process of physical therapy, sitting the patient upright for the first time._

"Tomorrow?" Rosalind's voice broke through, drawing his eyes from the notebook. She was on the right side of the bed, opposite the doctor, working on a bandage change for the abrasion wounds. "So soon? I'm not certain it would be wise. Erik is still having severe dizzy spells if he rolls his head too fast."

Wright laid his pen down and rubbed his mustache. "Yes. I think we need to start tomorrow. The longer we put this off, the more work will be involved in reconditioning the wasted muscles. He's in poor enough shape already."

Stripping the old bandage away, she held the wrist up with a frustrated frown. "There's one more note for you to add concerning his health. Look at this."

Observing the abrasion wound, he shrugged. "Yes, well, it's an understandable state, the man spent a year chained up... ah yes! I forgot to note that time frame, thank you."

"That's not what I meant." She rolled the wrist a little more into the bright ray of sunshine, making sure he would get a good glimpse at the raw skin. "These are barely healing. By now there should be more improvement, especially with how thoroughly they've been tended. There's no sign of an infection, there is just extremely slow healing from the day you performed the surgery."

Scribbling a note in his book, Wright remarked. "Perhaps his body knows the head is more important to heal than those shallow little abrasions. Did you think of that?"

She rolled her eyes, unseen by the distracted doctor. Was he blind? After listening to his rambling notes she wondered how much of Wright's interest in Erik's health hinged upon the surgeon's own reputation. "No." Snapped Rosalind. "I didn't think of that because it's a load of hogwash. I've cared for enough wounds long term to know what a normal healing rate is."

Shutting his notebook, Wright stood and gestured towards Erik. "Our patient is not normal."

"Clearly that is _your_ professional opinion." Offering him a dark glare, she picked up a cloth and soaked it. "I think the patient might take offense from that if he were conscious."

"Another thing he is not." He replied dismissively, striding for the door. "Tomorrow, early afternoon I'll be in here. I want him held fully upright in the bed until the dizzy spell passes."

After the door closed, Rosalind grumbled. "Should make him hold you up, Erik. Let you dig your nails into his skin if he thinks you're ready for this."


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12**_

"Erik. I know you are awake." Rosalind chuckled. "You can stop trying to fool me."

Cracking one eye open, he saw her standing over him with her arms crossed over her chest. "How did you know?"

"Really? You think I'm that unobservant? I've been watching your breathing patterns for nearly two weeks now, gauging when you would wake. Of course I can tell when you're conscious."

Muttering a mild curse under his breath, he heaved a sigh. "I was hoping to delay this." Around his head, the bandages had been reduced, no longer requiring the excess bulk. A wide strip wrapped several times around was sufficient.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gave him a sympathetic squeeze. "I know."

"I'm not ready for this." He closed his eyes, not even daring to try and shake his head against the embrace of the pillow.

Rolling her eyes, Rosalind placed her hands on her hips. "Just how do you know you're not ready?" It ended in a glare, a glare that left Erik cringing.

Christine's voice caught his attention. "There's no way he has the strength to sit up yet."

"Oh, I'm fairly certain he figured that out earlier this morning. Didn't you, Erik." Rosalind tapped her foot as she watched Erik looking guiltily anywhere but in her direction. "Someone tried when he thought I wasn't watching, and someone didn't make it very far, did he."

Erik swallowed visibly in the dim light of the room, a slight tremble of his hand betrayed his shame.

At the foot of the bed, Nadir laughed out. "Didn't I tell you Rosalind that he wouldn't let his body limit him."

"Oh … " he mumbled in response, "I think this time I might. I nearly lost my breakfast … what little I get."

Rosalind chided. "Would have served you right. We'll see if things go better with Molly and I holding you up in just a little while now. You better start bracing yourself. Wright wants you up until the dizziness passes."

Erik's eyes wandered to Christine who was seated beside the bed with an encouraging smile. Slowly he let his gaze find Nadir leaning on his crutches at the foot of the bed. He was hanging something over the short post of the foot board. The silver pendant swung as he let it dangle from the chain. Immediately, Erik recognized his old uroborus necklace he used to wear when he had been traveling magician in the Eurasian faires … the time when he and Nadir had first crossed paths. The significance of the silver snake grasping his own tail and twisting into the infinity sign was not lost on him, nor had it been lost on Nadir. Clearly he had brought the alchemical emblem up as a reminder of how malleable the matter that comprised the universe was. Eternal construction through deconstruction. If only he could have skipped that last phase.

"Everything helps." Nadir shrugged. "I remembered when you told me about the meaning and why you wore it."

Pointing at the necklace, Erik replied. "Oh yes. I'm sure that Foster here would just love me to be reminded of a time when I boasted I was not ruled by the laws of the universe!"

Leaning over, she said curtly, "Were you really that arrogant? And I already told you, you may call me Rosalind."

"I've known Damrosch far longer than you," Erik retorted firmly. "Not even he is addressed by his familiar name."

There was a quick knock at the door. Erik snapped his eyes shut as Molly entered followed by Wright. Once the door was closed, he opened his eyes again trying to master his building anxiety. He realized dismally no one was leaving the room. This was going to be embarrassing enough as it was … but to have Nadir and Christine witness this … "Oh wonderful, I get an audience," he murmured.

The doctor stood at the foot of the bed as Molly came to Erik's right side, Rosalind was already on his left. "Are we ready?" Wright asked without any preamble.

Both the nurses nodded. Erik blurted out. "No!" Already he felt his heart rate increasing.

"Darling." Christine whispered. "You can do this."

"No I can't! Not yet!" he shot out between sharp breaths. The sensation of the world falling out from beneath him once in a day was quite sufficient!

Wright did not even blink. "Let's get him up."

Gently, Rosalind and Molly worked as a team easing Erik up from the pillows. Even as slow as they went, what little color he had gained to his flesh left it in a sudden ebbing tide. His eyes rolled about for a moment as he very nearly lost consciousness. The world made several very violent flips and turns as they held his trembling body secure in their arms.

"Please … " He gasped. "Back down!" But they did not release him. His stomach twisted and turned, leaving him sucking in air trying to fight the overwhelming urge to wretch.

Rosalind was watching every moment as Erik clung to her arm for support. His eyes squeezed tight as his fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeve. There wasn't much strength in it, but there was an abundance of desperation.

"Lay … me … down!" he begged slipping into French.

Coming to her feet, Christine turned her concerned eyes to Wright. "He said he wants to lay down!"

Wright shook his head, staring down his nose. "Not until things settle."

Opening his eyes, Erik fixed the doctor with a hostile glare as beads of sweat dripped down his face. "I … hate … you!" He had fought very hard to keep that in English to be certain that his message had been understood. It was all he got out before he was forced to swallow back his stomach's attempt to protest. Gasping for air, he hung there supported in misery as the world continued to gyrate.

Whether the spell passed or Erik's body simply abandoned the strength to even shudder was unknown. Wright at last was satisfied when he saw Erik's limbs loosing tension in the nurses' grasp. Levering him back down slowly, Rosalind watched as Erik's eyes fluttered shut. The moment they released his arms he brought them to his stomach, grasping it with a low moan.

"That was about two minutes." All eyes, save Erik's which were firmly shut, locked on Wright as he grinned at the observation. "That's not bad for a start. This needs to happen several times a day until you think we can get him sitting up on the side of the bed. We'll do that for a few days, then on to standing up!" Turning, he left the room without another word.

Nadir heaved a sigh, his gaze falling on Erik as he gulped in air, clearly trying to settle the nausea. "If that's the case, looks like he won't be eating for the next few days."

Rubbing his shoulder, Rosalind gave Molly a nod of dismissal. "Erik. You just let me know when your stomach feels like it can handle it and I'll get you something to eat."

The only reply was another shuddering moan.

Very carefully, Christine kissed Erik on his cheek, she whispered into his ear. "I love you, my Angel. We'll get you better, just hold on." Her worried eyes shifted up to Rosalind who shared the expression. Which was worse, the patient's ambition or the doctor's? At least the patient realized the limitation and had tried to listen.

Idly, Erik's fingers picked at the bandage on his wrist as he reclined against the pillows. It had taken days of brutal battles against gravity. Each time he had been able to endure the forced punishment marginally longer. At least there was a reward to be gained, with a great deal of assistance he was finally able to sit up in the bed so long as he was significantly propped up. The world had finally settled into one place, provided he kept his movements slow and steady. It wasn't hard to remember that detail. The residual ache that not even the pain medication could subdue was a constant reminder of his current limitations. He was tired of the pain, tired of being practically helpless, but most of all he was tired of broth and ale. He craved real food, his body knowing it was an essential component against the strain of the attempts to recondition the atrophied muscles.

Christine's hand gently stilled his rogue fingers. She smiled as his eyes drifted her way. "Erik dear, you need to leave that alone or it will never heal."

"I can't help it." He pulled his arm away, letting it drop off to the side. "The damn thing itches! Both my wrists do ... and my ankles too, I can't even reach those. No one will tell me how they got injured in the first place."

"In time." She tried to placate him by massaging his hand. "I promise you, one day Nadir and I will tell you everything."

"That reminds me." He squinted his eyes in thought. "What happened to his leg?"

Only partially suppressing the shudder, she was forced to look away. "He broke it in an unfortunate accident." Inside her a desperate voice kept begging him not to ask how! It was so hard to lie to him, so hard to continue holding back the truth.

A knock on the door saved her. Erik instinctively shut his eyes. Though the gas sconces were on about half flow now without him complaining, sudden changes in light were still painful. Rosalind entered the room with a wide grin on her face. "Well now, you've been asking for something other than broth. Since you can finally sit upright, I think it's time we reward your efforts."

Opening his eyes, Erik sighed. "I'd say it's more than time for that. How is a body supposed to heal on such meager offerings as … " His gaze fell on the shallow dish in her hands. Narrowing his eyes, he snapped, "That doesn't look like food. What is that?"

"Milk soaked bread." She chuckled. "It's hardly fine cuisine, Erik. But you haven't had anything solid to eat in two and a half weeks now. It's essential we start out with something bland."

Very slowly, so as not to trigger a dizzy spell, he shook his head. "There is a difference between bland and tasteless!"

Christine took the bowl from the nurse giving Erik a chastising glare. "Would you rather starve?"

His stomach chose that moment to growl rather audibly. That answered that. Bringing a hand up, he tried to cover his face in embarrassment. "Alright, alright … you win. At least let me do it myself." Reaching out he tried to take the bowl, but the moment most of the weight transferred to his hands they began to shake. Erik growled in frustration at the betrayal.

"It's alright." Holding the bowl in her lap, she guided his hands back down to the bed. "You've already done a fair amount today."

"Oh yes." He rolled his eyes. "I've had a positively enchanting day. Can't even muster enough strength to lift a damn bowl!"

Rosalind laughed. "Maybe not at the moment, but that's because you spent a fair amount of energy this morning working your muscles. It's hardly a surprise that there's some residual fatigue. You still need to ration your strength."

Holding out the spoon with a piece of the sodden bread, Christine waited for a rather sullen Erik to accept her assistance. She couldn't help but chuckle at the expression that crossed his face at the texture of the meager food in his mouth. After he forcefully swallowed, he bowed his head, "What I wouldn't give for a plate of citrus glazed poultry."

"Oh," she cooed. "The moment you can have it I'll make sure the chef prepares it precisely the way you like it. For now just use your imagination."

He lifted his lip and replied disdainfully, "That's rather a far leap."

"Surely it's not that bad." Scooping up another piece, she proceeded to eat it. Within moments the satisfied expression on her face faded to one of utter disappointment. "Alright. I confess, that is fairly tasteless."

Jabbing a finger towards the bowl he decreed, "You see, a far cry from real food."

Rosalind laid a hand on his shoulder, stealing his attention. "Eat it for now. I'll see if I can't get something more appetizing for your dinner. Perhaps a custard?" She swore she saw a little hopeful gleam in his eyes at the suggestion. "I take it that sounds better?"

He brought his hands together in a plea. "Anything with some flavor to it! To think, all those years of Nadir nagging me about not sitting down to take the time for a full meal because I was too preoccupied to slow down for it … I took it all for granted. Weeks of _drinking_ my daily bread, I swear my hunger is insatiable."

Raising an eyebrow, Rosalind studied him a moment contemplating something she had caught while Wright had been muttering out loud. "Erik, were you smoking opium during that time?"

Unclasping his hands, he gazed up at her curiously. "Well, … as a matter of fact … yes. How did you know?"

She waved off the question. "Wright mentioned it. But I wonder if you are aware how much opiates can suppress appetite. If you engaged in anything beyond mild use, you very likely experienced that side effect."

He blinked up at her in bewilderment, the connection clearly never having been made before.

Beside him, Christine laughed into her hands. "Oh my God! That explains why after we were married I found him constantly nibbling on something. He really did have a healthy appetite, probably for the first in … ever!"

"Some months after the forced withdrawal?" she asked.

"Yes, about a year after that. He was constantly filching things from the kitchen!"

Erik scowled. "In case you have forgotten, I'm the master of this house. You can't filch from your own kitchen!" The expression wrinkled the skin beneath the bandages, tugging on the stitches. Lowering his head slowly, he lifted a hand as he winced. "I shouldn't have done that. When can these damn things come out?"

"Not for a while yet. Wright wants to leave them in longer to make sure the incision has bonded. He's worried about the … " she paused, grappling the best way to conclude the doctor's observation. " … healing factor of the effected skin."

"No reason for that." He muttered with half a shrug. "Heals as well as the rest me does."

Rosalind stood there in quiet contemplation, her eyes drifting over him. The fact was, superficially the wounds were not healing well, even since she had spoken unsuccessfully with Wright there had only been a marginal change in the minor wounds.

"Oh please." Erik smirked, assuming she had fallen silent for an entirely different reason. "It's not like I hadn't been struck in the face before. I hardly lived a sheltered life."

Clearing her throat Christine held up the bowl, she held the loaded spoon waiting for Erik to stop eyeing it with disdain. It didn't take too long for that ravenous appetite to bend his will. Reluctantly, he swallowed each mouthful. By the time she was scraping the bottom of the bowl, his eyelids had begun to droop. He'd been awake for a good portion of the day already, and fairly active by comparison.

Rosalind approached, dissolving a measure of powdered codeine into a small glass. "Before you drift off, let's get this in you. Don't want the pain ebbing back while you sleep."

"I'm not tired." He murmured drowsily as she held the glass for him, making sure not a single precious drop was lost.

"Mmm hmm. Lie all you want. Your eyes always tell the truth." She gently pulled out a few pillows from behind him, gradually settling his body a little lower. "Rest well for now. Soon enough we'll have to torture you again." She used his term for the sessions with a knowing smile.

"No, really. It is that simple." Erik still lie on his back, having woken up from a sound night's sleep less than an hour ago. A few more days of his _torture_ sessions had one marked result, he was so worn out by the end of the day, he slept solidly into the morning.

Rosalind was in the process of preparing some fresh strips for a bandage change, chatting idly in the half-lit room. "So, if I understand you, it's the dried extracts ground and boiled in water with a few drops of oil of peppermint added while it's cooling?"

He stirred the air with a relaxed hand. "Precisely. The key is adding the oil at the right moment, too soon and it all evaporates without having the effect."

"Alright, you have me curious what does it do?"

"The oil?" He raised his eyebrows, even in the half light she could see that the bruising was markedly fading. "Two things. First it helps clear the air ways, and more importantly it makes that bitter solution go down without gagging."

Setting the scissors aside, she cocked her head. "Now where did you pick that up?"

"A Gypsy hag." He saw her expression darken, holding up a staying hand he explained. "That was what she called herself! It's a long story how I got to be rummaging around her tent."

Picking the scissors back up, she shrugged. "Well, it's not like either of us have anything pressing. Do tell."

Taking a deep breath he shrugged, staring idly at the ceiling. "It's not precisely the most charming part of my life … suffice it to say on the Romany road there was little comfort."

Without a sound, the door opened wide admitting a bright stream from the daylight-flooded hall beyond.

Erik hissed as the sudden light change stung his eyes, his hand shot up to shield the tight lids.

Slamming down the scissors, Rosalind turned to see Wright ambling into the room. "Doctor Wright! How many times do I have to … !" It wasn't worth it, he wasn't listening already. Leaning over the bed, Rosalind took Erik's hand. "You can open your eyes, the door's shut now. Are you alright?"

Keeping his voice to a low growl, Erik snapped. "Give me something to throw at him and I will be!"

Patting the back of his hand, she replied just loud enough for Erik to hear. "Sorry, I promised Nadir I wouldn't let you give him a lesson in manners."

"How's my patient today?" Wright strode up to the bedside as Rosalind ducked out of the way with an apologetic look cast toward _the patient_.

"Erik has just woken up." She replied firmly. "He's not ready for much activity." … lest the doctor have any ideas.

Smiling broadly, Wright was practically rocking on his heels. "He doesn't really need to do much. Just listen, and perhaps chat a little." That worried Rosalind, she only just noticed that Wright's hand was being held strategically behind his back. She couldn't see what he had.

Under the blanket, Erik was lying rather still, a wary glare directed up at the doctor. There was an absolute tension to his hands, she saw the fingers curling into the folds of the fabric.

"How is the physical therapy going?" Wright attempted to offer a warm smile.

"The torture is about what can be expected." Came Erik's acidic reply. He was considering adding a remark about the man being a barbarian, but decided the fewer words he wasted on him the sooner he would go away!

Nodding his head a little too swiftly, Wright made a pathetic attempt at sympathy. He was far too excited for it to be convincing. "I see, well. We'll get you up and out of bed soon enough."

Erik's fingers curled tighter into the blanket, wanting nothing more than to make this surgeon experience the process of his procedure. Of course, that would require having access to his stone chisels which he couldn't remember where they were at the moment. Not that that mattered, he could hardly get to them, still a slave to gravity.

"I hear you are a man of science." Wright shifted a bit, adjusting his hold on the object behind his back. "Which means you might be interested in seeing this." His hand appeared, holding forth the jar of formaldehyde containing the tumor.

Instantly slack-jawed, Erik's cold hostility abandoned him as he locked his eyes on the object. After staring dumbly at the object, he grunted as he struggled to roll onto his elbow, fighting to wrench his body up to get a better look at the jar.

Dashing to the bed, Rosalind grabbed his arm. "Easy, Erik! You shouldn't do that on your own yet! Let me help you up!"

At last settling his distracted body back against a stack of pillows, she relaxed as the crisis was averted. That would be all Erik needed right now, to pull a muscle!

Erik's hands reached forward, the long fingers brushing the jar as his eyes studied the contents with a morbid fascination. "Is that … what I think it is?"

Giving the jar a little push forward, Wright set it into Erik's hands. The moment the weight was in them his muscles protested, trembling slightly. "That is what I removed from right here." He pointed to the bandage around Erik's head.

Erik didn't look up. He was locked in a grim fascination with the white mass floating in the jar of fluid, turning it within his white knuckled grasp. There was no tension in his jaw as he wordlessly gaped.

Minutes passed, Wright observed Erik's reaction with disappointment. Some genius. Perhaps these people had no real concept of what denoted a genius. All he saw was an invalid staring blankly at the sight before him. Hardly a man of science. He could at least ask a question or express some awe at the skill needed for the removal if he truly understood what he held in his hands.

However, the surgeon was not privy to what was going on in Erik's mind. Measuring the size of the mass within the jar and trying to remember to factor for the refraction of the bent glass, Erik attempted numerous times to dredge up the proper formulas to calculate the displacement the tumor would have produced and thus the resulting increase in pressure. Before he had succumbed to that very pressure, the calculation would have taken him only moments without writing down a single number. Now, he was stumbling over the arithmetic, tripping over the numbers and second guessing if the formula was the correct one or if he even remembered it properly.

Pulling the jar from Erik's grasp, Wright set it on the table with a sigh. "You see that there, that was the demon that was plaguing you. Amazing what skilled hands can remove."

Slowly, Erik shifted his gaze to the surgeon, his expression dark and very cold. "No man can remove a demon. Any man who believes he can should consider himself a fool."

Cocking his head, Wright looked down his nose at him. "I didn't take you for the religious kind."

"I would hardly consider myself on good terms in that regard." He replied with a quiet intensity that left Rosalind unsettled. The change between his easy voice when he had first woken and how he now addressed the doctor was unnerving. "I acknowledged my sins long ago. You just fail to recognize your own."

Clamping a hand on the jar, Wright held it up arrogantly, unwittingly confirming Erik's unspoken accusation. "Demons come in many forms, and this one was at the heart of your downfall, my good man! I have unlocked its jaws from consuming you and brought you back into the world."

Erik rolled his eyes, grumbling in French. "And I thought that stage-divas brought the most melodrama."

Deflating slightly at not having coaxed out any praise, Wright lowered the jar and sighed when he could not understand what Erik had said. "Ah, I see … the nurses have told me you have trouble selecting the proper language when you are tired."

"Tired I may be." Replied Erik smoothly so the doctor was privy to his words. "But that is not why I selected my words, to me French _is_ my proper language."

Wright sat up straighter. "But I cannot understand French."

Rosalind saw a slight devious grin on Erik's lips as he replied in French. "That problem lies entirely within you."

Blinking, the doctor remained silent for sometime, the two men exchanging wordless stares. Erik with a cold and intense cast to his eerie eyes. Wright frozen with uncertainty. From across the room, Rosalind couldn't help but be amused at the simple fact that the expression of the surgeon bore less intelligence than that of his patient.

"How can I converse with a man who struggles to maintain a single language." Wright protested at last.

With a slight shrug, Erik replied in English, "I'm not struggling. I am purposefully selecting which to speak and when to do so. To answer your query is simple," he paused before letting the last word hang between them, "learn."

Tiring of this game, Wright took the jar and fled from the room with little dignity left intact. Once Erik dared to open his eyes after the door shut, he leaned his head forward with a wince. "Great, that took far too much concentration … now I have a headache!"


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13**_

Days relentlessly ground onwards, Erik's only sense of the passage of days were the long stretches of the night hours, devoid of the torture sessions. By now they had progressed to standing, firmly holding him up and trying to let his shuddering legs take a portion of his body weight. Hanging there, shaking like the last autumn leaf in the brutal winter winds, he realized just how pitifully weak he had truly become. The only blessing he found was the increased strain on his healing body demanded heartier meals. At long last, Erik was permitted real food, which vanished as if by magic when placed before him.

"Just take your time." Christine's shoulder supported his right arm, holding him on his feet at the bedside. Rosalind had his left arm over her shoulder watching Erik's fatigue building.

His head bowed, Erik was gritting his teeth, concentrating so hard, beads of sweat were dripping from beneath the bandage. He hadn't said a word since they had eased him onto his feet. He just panted each breath, staring hard at the ground, willing his muscles to comply. But nothing was happening, save for the tremors of his inadequate muscles.

At last he gasped, sagging in their hold. "I can't … " His words were broken, heavy with signs of his exhaustion. "Won't move … can't do it … "

Rubbing his side with her hand, Christine spook softly. "Don't give up. Take a moment, try to take a step again."

"Why do … you have … to … witness … this?" Looking rather like a scarecrow, Erik didn't have a choice but to remain locked in their embrace. He couldn't lay down until they lowered him back into the bed. Torn, he didn't want to return to being trapped upon that mattress … but every fiber of his body burned from the strain of trying to do something as pathetic as taking a single step.

Diligently, Christine ignored his attempt to get her to leave. There was nothing on this earth that would compel her to abandon him at this crucial stage. Of course he was embarrassed, who wouldn't be? She saw no shame in his battle. "Try again. We won't let you fall."

Tensing, he made a fitful effort that lasted all of ten seconds before he sagged once more in defeat.

Rosalind's sympathetic gaze lingered on him as she once more shared his full meager weight with Christine. "He's not strong enough yet."

Panting, Erik muttered to the floor. "Can't get … my carcass … to move … "

From a chair, Nadir clicked his tongue, his hand resting on his crutches … the crutches he knew he would be dependent upon for close to the remainder of this year thanks to the broken bone. With a sly expression, he tipped his head towards Erik. "You want him to take a step? I bet I can draw that out of him."

Very slowly, Erik raised his tense eyes towards Nadir, a shadow of dread in his expression.

Grunting, Nadir wrenched himself from the chair. Placing his weight on the crutches, he made a show of hobbling his way towards Erik's suspended figure. Both Christine and Rosalind watched, uncertain of what Erik's oldest acquaintance had in mind. "Would you look at this." He glanced down at the crutches before shifting his gaze to Erik's shaking bare feet. "Just look at this … are you really going to let yourself be bested by a gimpy old man?" Making his point, Nadir performed a slow circle on the crutches, with a snide grin on his face.

Alarmed, Rosalind felt a surge in Erik's left arm as his hand became a fist. That was not the most surprising effect. She noted that Erik executed a slow determined nod toward the Persian.

Nodding back, Nadir leaned forward, almost leering up at Erik. "Pathetic, you're not even the master of your own body! Even an infant can take a step without crying about it."

Christine's eyes began to light up as she spied the spark of fire in Erik's eyes fanned by Nadir's taunts. She could feel the tension building in Erik's arm, even his breathing had deepened in preparation for another try.

"I'm older than you, and yet look at me!" Nadir held his arms out, letting the crutches keep his balance. "All I need is simple sticks of wood to help me … you, on the other hand, you are so feeble you're practically a marionette. If they let you go you would flop to the floor without resistance. You are at their mercy as they pull your strings, Invalid!"

Erik's eyes snapped shut, With a cry of rage at those words, his whole body convulsed with the effort he forced into one extreme goal. Shakily, his left foot rose off the floor. Slowly at first before at last it edged forward in a deliberate step. Not satisfied with one, Erik's right leg now shuddered with the effort. The result was a staggered motion that moved his entire frame away from the bed. It was the farthest he had been since the day they had settled his decrepit body after the surgery.

The fury spent, Erik sagged once more, gasping for air. His knees had given out but he had successfully managed to lift both of his legs from the floor.

"That's the key." Nadir gave a triumphant grin. "Erik's temper is about the most powerful force within him. If anything can push through the fatigue, goading his anger should do it."

Rosalind was about to reply when a faint rasped phrase caught her attention. Erik couldn't lift his head anymore, but his lips moved and enough breath left him to carry in the silence. " … thank you … "

Nadir laughed softly. "You see? He even knows it."

"Unbelievable," replied Rosalind. "Looks like we'll be using you to spur him on. But for today, I think that is enough. Let's get him back in bed."

Very carefully, Rosalind and Christine levered him back in the bed. Erik's eyes were shut from exhaustion long before they pulled the covers up. Wringing a cloth out over a basin on the bedside, Christine wiped the sweat from Erik's face and down his neck. When she finished, she dropped the cloth back into the cool water, leaning over the bed.

Laying a hand on her shoulder, Rosalind whispered. "We'll let him rest for the remainder of the day. Poor dear, I bet everything is burning. It's a start, and he has such a long way to go before he can actually walk again. It's so easy to belittle how much endurance it takes just to stand up."

Christine patted Erik's hand before she turned and embraced Nadir in a warm hug. "Thank you, you knew what he needed to find the strength."

He smiled somberly, "I hated to do that to him, I know how annoyed he gets when someone pokes at one of his weaknesses … but it was worse seeing him on the verge of giving up. We'll get him back, now. I can see that, now. Piece by piece, day by day, we'll get him back."

* * *

"Nadir … that's enough!" Erik snapped wearily as he dragged his foot another step supported by a taciturn Agatha and a rather distracted Lucy. Walking him along the wall, they had made a fair amount of progress approaching the second window with its shut drapes. The room was still only partially lit for the sake of Erik's eyes.

With a little chuckle, Nadir took a slow step. "I'm just catching up to you."

"I'd like to see you try that if I took your crutches away from you!" Throwing him a sideways glare, Erik quipped. "Days of your non-stop insults! How long are you going to risk your health like this?"

There wasn't even a pause as he replied, "As long as it takes to keep your bones from falling into the earth."

Dragging his foot another shaking step, he groaned. "You're not even trying anymore." With a heavy sigh, he hung his head. "It's been two bloody agonizing weeks of being dragged up from lying flat on my back in bed, and this pathetic shambling gate is all I can manage … not even that on my own."

Lucy muttered just over her breath. "An entire month of being cloistered in this house with all of Manhattan out there!"

Bitterly Erik retorted, glaring her direction from under the edge of the bandages, "I would trade places with you."

She didn't look his way as she huffed out a breath, ignoring his reply. "It's too beautiful a day to be stuck in the darkness." Her fingers absently drifted towards the edge of the heavy drape, gently pulling it back to peak out at the bright spring day.

The moment the stream of light hit Erik's eyes, he was instantly blinded by the change. Wailing out in shock, he stumbled, his arm slipping from Lucy's grasp. He could tell he was falling faster than Agatha could compensate, and instinctively he reached out his right hand, groping for something, anything to break his fall! His hand found the window ledge, the ring finger buckling with a loud snap as it hit at an awkward angle.

From the doorway, where she had just entered, Rosalind stared in shock. Rushing across the room, she darted to intercept the stunned Lucy's attempts to wrench Erik from the windowsill.

Erik's wide eyes stared in pained horror at his finger, his jaw hung entirely slack as Rosalind took one look at his hand, declaring, "Great! A broken finger! Just what he needed, Lucy! What were you thinking?"

"I … was … I'm sorry." Lucy stuttered, darting her eyes to the floor.

"Pure stupid negligence! Get out of here! Now!" Not even waiting for a reply, Rosalind slid under Erik's arm, careful not to jar his hand. "Let's get back to the bed. Agatha, once we get him back there I'll need something for a splint. Then I want you to go report it to Wright."

Sliding Erik back in the bed, Rosalind took a good look at it. All he could do was stare in shock at the swelling ring finger. She sighed. "Yes, it's definitely broken. The bone is still straight, thankfully."

Nadir closed the space on the bedside, clearly worried.

Not liking the fact that Erik was so silent and still, Rosalind placed a hand on his shoulder. "Does it hurt?"

He nodded, shakily, wincing.

The moment that Agatha brought a short piece of wood and a narrow strip of linen, Rosalind began to bind the ring and middle finger to the splint. "I imagine it does." She narrowed her eyes, "Strange, that wasn't a hard fall. That shouldn't have been enough force to break a bone."

Erik's eyes were still unfocused from the shock as he muttered, "It takes 3,300 newtons of force to break a rib bone."

Freezing in mid motion, Rosalind blinked at the strange fact he had blurted out.

After a few breaths, Erik squinted in clear confusion. "Why do I know that?"

Uncomfortably, Nadir shifted on the crutches. He was well aware of the process Erik had discovered of how to destroy bones within a human body. Though he had not been privy to Erik's precise experiments, he had heard the results in the Persian courts. Dismally, he wished if Erik were to lose anything permanently from this ordeal, it would be knowledge of that vile nature.

Slightly unnerved, Rosalind finished securing the knot. She lowered Erik's hand to rest slightly elevated on his chest. His eyes kept staring at the injury. She was certain that the fatigue wasn't helping him clear the shock one bit. They had been tapering off the pain medication, which fortunately meant that she could now give him a stronger dose right away to help with the new injury. Hastily she mixed up a tincture for him and held it for him. He drank it down without a single word of protest.

"That was strong enough to help you get some sleep." She sat back in the chair hoping he would say something, do something more than just blindly stare at the fresh white bandage. Gradually as the effects made him drowsy, Erik's eyes drifted closed.

Nadir leaned forward, over the bed. "How long will that take to heal?"

Casting a worried gaze at the bandages still covering his wrists she sighed, "I don't know anymore."

* * *

Damrosch silently slipped through the sickroom door. The moment he looked across the room, he felt his heart drop inside his chest. Christine sat very somberly at the bedside, holding Erik's left hand. He looked to be sound asleep, the glass from his medication still sitting on the bedside table along with a scalpel, and a wadding of old bandages. Hushed steps carried him toward the bed where the glimmer of her tears caught in the low light. His eyes darted as they caught something else, Erik's right hand — the fingers had been bound together.

Swallowing hard, he tried to keep his voice calm as he asked, "What's wrong?"

Christine ran her thumb on the back of Erik's hand as she blurted out. "I'm never leaving this room again. I swear it! They broke his finger. The stupid little wretches let him fall and they broke his finger!"

"Good heavens!" Damrosch stared at the bandages, clearly alarmed at the revelation.

From the shadows, Rosalind demurely clasped her hands in front of her. "I should not have left them in the room with him. Sadly, they were not up to the task they assured me they were. That is why they have been dismissed and sent back to Boston with a gross reprimand. I am so sorry for this, Christine. Erik had enough healing to begin with. And now this … "

Christine shook her head and tried to offer a slight smile. "It wasn't your fault. Now everything falls on you and Molly. Those two left a mess in their wake."

She sighed, casting her eyes to the mess on the table. "Well, now that Wright has removed the stitches, his care is mostly in rehabilitation. Molly and I can better handle that ourselves."

"The incision was healed enough?" Damrosch placed a hand on Christine's shoulder.

She nodded. "That was the good news … " Her eyes immediately fell to her lap, fresh tears on her face.

Kneeling down, Damrosch almost hated to ask. "What was the bad … "

Rosalind's shoulders fell a bit as she bundled up the bandages to toss them. "It's Erik … ever since the stumble yesterday he just hasn't been the same. I couldn't motivate him to get up. Not even Nadir's words could inspire enough of a response. He's just … just … his spirit is crushed."

Gazing at the sleeping Erik, it was hard to see. In the drugged sleep he looked peaceful enough. But it had been a very long series of weeks, and he had heard from Christine how much effort Erik had been putting into to trying to walk again. He could only imagine how devastating a fall would have been, even a minor one. Shifting his eyes around the dismal room he shook his head. "Honestly, look at this place. He's been confined to this room in the dim light for a month now. I'd probably be hard pressed to find the spirit to shift myself too."

Hesitantly, Christine lifted her head. Her own eyes drifted about the room taking in how very dismal it was. "Rosalind … his care will be simpler now, less involved. Am I correct to assume so?"

"Yes." She nodded. "Merely keeping up with those abrasions that are still healing, his pain medication, and of course getting him up and moving."

Rising to her feet she turned to Damrosch. "Would you mind staying here a moment? Rosalind, would you follow me. I have something I want to show you."

Without another word, the two left him in the silent room. Damrosch stared at the splinted fingers feeling a sympathetic twinge of pain in his own. Erik's bones were long and rather thin, any misalignment would show. If the healed fracture was weak, would he ever be able to play his violin again?

It was the first time he began to wonder how much Erik would be able to do once he recovered. It had been so long since he heard that glorious violin, the dulcet tones of Erik's prized Stradivarius.

The door opened and shut. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a conspiratorial wink between the women. Rosalind grinned, "Oh, I think it will be good for him. Let's give him the day to rest, and tomorrow … tomorrow we have a new goal."

Damrosch cocked his head, but he received no more explanation as Christine sat down in the chair, once more taking Erik's hand in hers, giving it a gentle kiss.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14**_

In the hearth there dwelt nothing but shadows and ashes. Erik gazed blindly into it from where they had settled him upon the leather couch. That morning things had been different, when he had woken they had been waiting. They were smiling and chatting away like it was simply any other day as they changed him from the drafty hospital gown into a set of his own silken pajamas and wrapped him in his embroidered black satin robe. They opened the door, admitting the stable master Jacques with a folded up litter in his hands. Eagerly, they had settled Erik into it, explaining idly that it was too far to expect him to walk … oh no, not yet. And yet, he could not help but think how humiliating it was to be carried about like a bundle of firewood. It was an overcast day, the sound of the rain striking the windowpanes accompanied the odd procession down the hall to the other wing of the mansion. The storm was a blessing, there was little light filtering through the gaps of the heavy brocade drapes into the study where they now stood grinning at him as though the world had been returned to a sense of normal. If only it were that simple.

A glass of wine appeared before him, held out by Christine's steady hand. "Now for a little celebration my love, you are well enough to once more enjoy this!" She guided his left hand up making certain his fingers had a firm enough grasp before she let go.

Molly and Rosalind followed Jacques to the door. "We'll just go and fetch what we'll require from the other room." They shut the door behind them as Nadir settled himself on the shorter couch, laying his crutches off to the side.

Erik's eyes distantly observed the wine glass in his fingers. Haltingly, he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a long and trembling swallow from the sweet red. As the glass drifted back down to the safety of his lap, he looked beyond its rim. His voice when he spoke was timorous and raw. "I can't remember … the last time I drank wine."

"I know, it has been a while." She rested a hand on his shoulder, smiling warmly.

"No … " His eyes closed tightly to a slow shake of his head. "I mean it … as I say it. " A haunted gaze rose up to meet her. "I truly cannot remember it."

She trembled under the weight of his pleading stare. No words came as she tried to speak.

Once more seeking refuge in the cold hearth, Erik's eyes lost their focus. "It's time now, time to stop concealing the truth from me."

Shifting on the couch, Nadir shook his head. "It's been nearly a day since you've spoken even a single word. Erik, you're not ready."

"I need to know!" The forefinger on Erik's right hand brushed the bandage on his left wrist. "Why do you think I've been so bloody silent. I've been trying to put the pieces together." He glanced at the splinted finger. "Things like this … conditions like this … they don't _just happen_. It takes time. No matter what I try, I can't make sense of it. The hair growth, the atrophy, the wounds, my frail health … too much is missing." Locking eyes with Christine, his voice intensified. The wine sloshed in the glass in a violent shaking fit. "No more darkness!"

"You keep saying that." There was fear dwelling in his eyes. She could see it plain as day.

Bringing his right hand up, it hovered in the air, trembling as he whispered, "Because for me … that is all there has been. I don't even know how much is missing? How long has it been?"

Nadir's fingers clasped the arm of the couch as he took a moment to choose his words. "Erik … what is the last thing you recall?"

"Clearly?" He shook his head before concentrating so hard he had to lower it. Out of concern he might spill the wine, Christine gently took the glass from him, setting it aside. Tentatively Erik replied, "It all faded into a fog … I remember concerts with the lights painfully blinding me. A candle … a single flame on my desk searing. My laboratory, there was something about working in my laboratory in a desperate race against … something. None of that is clear. I woke up in that other room in a terrible confusion no one would ever explain."

Hesitantly, Christine took his left hand in hers. "Erik … it's been over a year."

Blankly, he stared at her, waiting for her to continue. Nadir's voice broke the silence. "You were in your laboratory practically every waking moment toward the end. At first there was some marginal control, if you rationed enough you were able to perform on the stage without anyone noticing something was wrong. Damrosch knew, you had told him … sooner than you had fully confessed to Christine and I how seriously your condition was degrading."

Erik held up a hand for a pause to interject. "What had I said … what was wrong?"

Nadir offered a shrug. "Various things were becoming problematic. I had a hell of a time getting you to admit it as your temper began to flare, I was certain that was part of it. But you kept pushing everyone away. You were cutting short the gas supply on the sconces, dashing the rooms into near darkness. We would find you holding your head in a dark corner ranting to some unseen entity. You saw and heard things that simply were not there. Your limbs eventually were so seized by constant tremors I swore you would burn yourself in the laboratory by accident. Time and again you told me all you needed to do was relock a door."

With a tremble, Erik shut his eyes. "Was I still … sane then?"

His shoulders sagged. "I don't know. You were desperate, your bloodshot eyes squinting in the light of a candle. There had been some questionable moments before then. By that time we had been forced to make excuses for you … not attending parties and such."

"Why?" He was not certain he wanted to know the answer to that question.

Unable to suppress the cringe, Nadir took a deep breath before turning sorrowfully to Erik. "By then, there had been too many incidents in public to be explained away that you were simply overworking yourself. Too many … injuries when you would unexpectedly lose possession of your faculties and basically assault whomever was closest to you. It had become entirely difficult to snap you back to yourself, and afterward … you didn't recall what you had done." His voice continued to drone on recounting parties after concerts involving common objects wielded upon guests in increasingly violent outbursts. By the time he had fallen silent, Erik was shivering, covered in a cold sweat in Christine's worried embrace.

"You let that much happen before you … before you sought out that doctor?" Erik closed his tormented eyes, fighting to stop shaking.

The slow rasp of Nadir's breath, in and then out, filled a silence much too long. "I'm afraid that those events only bring us to about a year ago … when we realized there was only one way to keep you from hurting others."

The fingers of Erik's left hand timorously encircled the bandaging on his right wrist. "Nine gates of hell … don't tell me … these are … what I think they are … "

Beside him, Christine withdrew, her hands folded in her lap she studied them, unable to look up. She couldn't bear the expression of impending horror on Erik's face.

Even Nadir spared him, his own gaze falling to the ground as he forced his head to nod. "I am deeply sorry … between your attempts and ours … we failed to stop the inevitable. There was no choice but to chain you."

" … no … " Crying out softly, Erik rolled forward just barely stopping himself from cradling his forehead in his hands. "No, no, no! Tell me that didn't happen! Nadir … no, you wouldn't do that! I can't handle being … chained … no! You know what would do …a whole year? No ... no! Where? Where did this … imprisonment ... take place?"

Still unable to look up from the floor, he murmured. "One of the storage rooms in the cellar. You never left here; no asylum, no hospital. We practically exhausted every effort bringing in specialists to try and figure out what was wrong with you. After all, we knew a breaking point had been reached when … when … " Nadir exhaled with the frustration of fighting for the words.

Erik's eyes drifted from Nadir to find Christine almost cowering on the end of the sofa. He discovered that the Persian had also fixed his gaze in her direction. "Tell me … "

"Before we locked you away," he rubbed his eyes, trying to look anywhere but at the bed chamber door toward the rear of the study. "Two rather telling incidents occurred. One evening I was forced to dash into your bedchamber to wrestle a blade from your hand as you had risen it against … " He couldn't even say it. All he could manage was a hesitant gesture toward Christine.

Erik froze before he dared to search her visible skin for signs of an attack.

"You did not succeed in harming her." Holding out a hand, Nadir drew his frantic gaze back. "However … "

It took a long moment of searching, a long moment of silence before the icy grip of dread hit him in the chest. " … Charles … I haven't seen him yet … I didn't … "

"You didn't." He held up a hand. "He is away at school, nothing more than that is why you have yet to see him. However, you need to know … the night we took the pains to secure you was the night I heard Christine's frantic screaming up here. You and Charles had been talking, everything seemed fine. In a moment something changed. She turned to see your hand fly up, as if to strike. Before she could stop you … poor Charles tried to fend it off by raising his arm, but your hand came down, the wedding band on your finger struck the bone on the outside of his wrist. There was so much blood from the split skin. It took several stitches to close the wound you left behind."

"My son … " Erik's breathing came in harsh gasps. His fingers clawed at the empty air as he fought to make sense of this revelation. "I would never … no … my wife and my son … what did that demon do with me?" His head fell back on the couch as he wailed. "How could _he_ do this! Shut the God-damned door, close me in darkness and then … then … "

Slowly, Christine embraced him, tears streaming down her face as she whispered into his ear. "I knew it wasn't you. I knew you never would have tried to hurt us, Erik. Something was wrong. If we'd only known about this." She reached up, brushing his temple where the edge of the bandage rode. "I forgive you, and I know this is over."

Collecting himself as much as he could, he murmured, "Did it leave a scar … please tell me I did not leave a mark upon him?"

Silence was the only reply.

Erik bowed his head. "How bad?"

"His wrist did not recover in time to play the final concert of the school year." Nadir sighed. "The scar is visible, but most people who did not see him in the bandages do not notice it. He, however, is aware of it. And though he does not openly speak of it, there is no doubt that it bothers him." His shoulders sagged as far as they would go. "It was that event where we were forced to admit that what little predictably your fits used to have … well … we no longer knew from one moment to the next what language you would be speaking, though you favored Persian, Or what manner of behavior you would exhibit. To prevent you from harming others, we were forced to restrain you."

Edged with guilt, Erik glanced at his old friend before the weight of the revelation carried his eyes back to the floor. "But it didn't really stop that, did it … " With a jerky finger he indicated the broken leg. "I was told it was a terrible accident … tell me the truth, I was at fault. Wasn't I?"

Reaching down, he rubbed the aching limb. "We are both to blame, Erik. I forbid you to take sole possession of the blame. For a year I had been administering to you in the confines of the cellar. I knew your mind had latched onto the darker memories of the Persian courts and the cost of being reckless once the door was opened. Yet, I foolishly allowed myself to be manipulated. I was in my right mind, I should have known better."

It didn't change anything as Erik cringed under the confirmation of his suspicion. "I completely lost my mind … the diabolical hands of that beast within me threatened or destroyed everything I loved! Why did I ever turn the key, why did I ever let _him_ out! Why did I ever listen to _his_ insidious whispers!"

"What are you talking about?" Christine drew back slightly, leaving her hand resting upon his shoulder. Through her fingers, she could feel the pounding of his racing heart.

" _He_ tricked me! The vile demon, I tried to fight _him_! I know I never should have turned the key and released the door. But _he_ convinced me I needed _his_ help until I relented in desperation. After that, it was a never ending struggle as _he_ waged a war for control … _he_ won. _He_ threw me in that dark cell and locked me inside!" Erik shuddered so hard his teeth rattled. "Nothing … nothing but darkness. No light, no sound save the echoes of my own frantic cries … only numbness. Only an endless void isolated from reality … ohh … "

"Shh, my love. Calm down."

"Erik, you had a tumor not some demonic possession." Nadir turned a quizzical gaze as he mused. "Remember you were in the cellar for the past year, the place is similar to what you were describing."

He shook his head stiffly. "No, Nadir … the door of which I speak, the lock … it was my own construction … " His fingers brushed against the bandage. "In here … in here to keep things safe … to keep the world safe … from _his_ terrible schemes, _his_ horrific deeds. Nadir! You know what I'm talking about! I locked _him_ away so _he_ could do more damage!"

Deeply swallowing, Nadir leaned forward slightly, studying his fretful friend. "Can you still hear his voice?"

His fingers slowly caressed the edges of the bandage. "No, it's all silence now." A great sorrow invaded his downcast eyes as the tension left his body leaving him bent. "It's … it's all gone."

"Thank heavens for that!" Christine heaved a sigh of relief.

Erik flexed the unsplinted fingers of his right hand, somberly observing the barely coordinated motions. His breath rattled in and out as he dismally stroked the splinted ring finger. "Everything … it's all gone. My whole life. If a simple stumble fractured bone, how can this hand ever hold a chisel to a mallet strike? It's over. No more building. The music … the music is gone. Only silence … unbreakable silence. It's all gone. Everything … I've lost it all … "

"Easy." Christine kissed his cheek, wiping away a tear. "You have to remember, it's only been a month since the surgery. You're still recovering. It's too early to assume your ability as a musician has been compromised."

He trembled, grimacing as he shook his head. "You don't understand … it's … oh … here … silence … " The words came out clipped and disconnected as Erik's jerky motions intensified.

Picking up the wine glass, Christine held it out for him. "Drink this, you need to calm down. You're not making any sense."

The patter of the rain upon the windowpanes filled the silence as Erik let Christine hold the wine glass to his lips in a series of deep gulps, until the glass was empty. A rumble of distant thunder betrayed the presence of the growing storm. Inside the study, Erik's eyes were lost as the reality of the tragedy overwhelmed him, drowning his healing mind in a torrential downpour. A cold numbness enveloped him, mind and body. They had been right. Everyone had been right. He hadn't been ready for this, why had he asked to know? It would be impossible to banish the thoughts now from an already troubled mind.

A finger traced his chin, drawing him back to the present. He blinked dry eyes, drifting his gaze to find Christine. She was still here. She hadn't left. She hadn't abandoned him to the darkness. She had stayed. But this wasn't over, they were mistaken if they believed the struggles had ended. Hesitantly, Erik brushed his fingertips against her cheek, dampened with her tears. His lips moved, but there were no words reaching them. Once more his own body abandoning him in sheer weakness.

Pushing up from the couch, Nadir quietly took up his crutches and ambled across the room. He returned with a finely knitted blanket. "Erik, it's beyond time for you to rest. Let all this sink and settle."

He shivered, closing his eyes slowly. "Settle? This will … not simply settle … like … like … " Everything was a jumble as random words cascaded onto his train of thought. He tightened his left hand into a fist, pounding it feebly against his knee. "Damn it!"

Taking the hand, Christine fought to offer him a trembling smile. "I'll help you lie down. Right here. You need to close your eyes for a little while. Just a little while, my love. We'll be right here when you wake, I promise."

There was no resistance as she helped Erik's weary body shift in the embrace of the soft cushions, nestling his head upon a pillow. She pulled the blanket over him tenderly, giving his left hand a gentle squeeze as his heavy eyelids drew shut.

When his breathing at last settled into the cadence of an exhausted sleep, Christine dared to whisper, "Should we have told him?"

Nadir sagged in the brace of his crutches. "It would have been crueler to withhold it any longer … whether he was ready or not he needed to know for his own sake. Unwittingly, he has now rendered his wounds more than simply the physical. I'm not sure if it is a blessing or not that the memories have been denied … he will still bear the consequences of actions that were not his own."

She tenderly smoothed out a wrinkle in the blanket. "The voice he spoke of, we knew he was hearing it, knew he had suffered hallucinations where he saw … well, we're not even certain of what he really saw save that it was not there. He sounded so convinced just now that there had been a real battle, a real fight for control, something that spanned back for sometime. The door he spoke of within his mind, didn't he tell of having locked the beast inside himself a long time ago?"

"Yes." Nadir nodded distantly. "In a rather disconcerting discussion just prior to the purchase of this land, he was drafting the plans for this mansion in the house by the quarry. Shadowcrest was in its infancy, he'd been working long days overseeing a number of building sites, despite the foremen on staff. By the candlelight, he would draft nearly the whole of the night, only catching a few hours of sleep as was his wont before dashing back out shortly before the sun rose. The morning in question had followed a turbulent passage of time with Erik's erratic behavior growing alarmingly volatile. However, Erik reclined in the desk chair like a reigning monarch. The smoke from his opium pipe wreathed him as he told me he had done it. He had constructed the perfect dwelling and had turned the key. Of course, I assumed he had merely been speaking of having completed one of his commissions. But that didn't make sense, for nothing he was working on was greater than half done at best. When I asked him what he had completed, I remember his odd words. _A place that nothing could escape_. He had told me, his words eerily certain despite how high he was on opium. Free, he said after describing the structure. He could have been describing a mansion, or a grand gathering hall … some structure of physical stone. But I came to realize he wasn't. He assured me that it was not something that gotten into him, but something that he had finally gotten out. How strange it was to hear such a concept built up of lunacy with that strange assuring light in his eyes. He was convinced it was over."

A peel of thunder rattled the window latches. Both their heads snapped up at the sudden intensity of the rage outside.

"It was raining, that night when he lie prone on his bed constructing this … this … prison."

"This time … maybe it is over." Christine swallowed as the lightning flash illuminated the room through a small gap in the brocade drapes. "We have to believe that this time it is truly over. The madness is gone. The Erik we know has returned to us unharmed."

Nadir heaved a long sigh. "It is too soon to say he is unharmed … I am not sure that is accurate at all, as much as I would like to believe it. Christine, from even just his perception, he has been dragged through a living hell. There is no conceivable way it will leave behind no scars of its passing. We just won't know what they are for now."

"He is getting better," she firmly replied. "He will overcome this."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 15**_

He was still, almost peaceful as his chest rose and fell beneath the down comforter. Last night was a little warm for such a substantial covering, but she had worried about how frail his health was. Though he had always been thin, there had been strength within those limbs that embraced her so firmly before. There had been graceful strength in his bearing, now there was only an ungainly feebleness. She knew it was early yet. To expect everything to be normal in a month was simply an unfair expectation of a body that had endured nearly two years of physical strain. Stepping back as she had done last night in the study, she realized all things considered Erik, was doing quite well.

The bruising had greatly faded, leaving only a slight discoloration in the rim of his eyes. The swelling behind them had long since left, dropping his eyes back into their sunken setting she had grown accustomed to. Of course the bandage was still essential to protect the still healing incision. Simply because the stitches had been removed did not mean the wound was fully healed.

Lying on her stomach, she had pulled her pillow into the space between them, resting her chin on her folded hands and just watching him sleep beside her. She waited for those captivating eyes to open. She wanted to be his first sight when he woke. The soft light of a few candles on the bed stands flickered, bright enough to illuminate without overwhelming him. Oh … how she used to fling open the drapes so he would open his eyes to the cheery sunshine, back in the days when he had first begun to sleep later … when they thought it had been nothing more than a passing result of him overextending himself. She wondered now if her intention had been rather bothersome as his light sensitivity secretly plagued him. Why didn't he tell her? Oh yes … Erik's pride would not have permitted it.

In a sudden rush of air, Erik took a deep breath. The splayed fingers lying on his chest stirred just moments before he cracked open his eyes, in his bed-chamber for the first morning in roughly a year. There she was, resting her chin on her hands smiling sweetly at him. "Good morning, Angel. How are you feeling this morning?"

He shifted slowly in the bed, flashing a mild grin before he heaved a sigh. "I wish you would not ask that right now, my love. I really don't want to lie to you."

Pushing up on her elbows, her unbound hair cascaded down in unbrushed golden curls as it spilled over the lace of her silken night-shift. "Oh, you should be honest with us. Was it better waking here?"

A slight chuckle escaped him as he let his eyes take her in. "The view is infinitely better."

Leaning down, she tenderly gave him a full kiss on the lips. "Morning medicine has been administered."

"Oh, that's a nice change too … " Reaching up his hand, he brushed her cheek. "I'm not sure it was a strong enough dose, though. Can I have another?"

With a playful grin, she wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure, we wouldn't an accidental overdose."

"Come here." Gently he scooped his hand behind her neck and pulled her closer as she giggled. It was good to feel even a small surge of strength. Locked in his arms, she kissed him again.

Careful not to put too much of her weight upon him, she snuggled up as close as she could get, resting an arm across his chest. "Too many nights apart. It was lonely and cold here without you. Last night, last night was the first in a long many that I have finally, truly slept."

He yawned, still not fully awake. "I must admit, that is was rather nice being in here … so much more … well, comfortable."

"Yes, that's precisely what Rosalind and I were thinking." Her fingers toyed with the top button of his shirt. "Now that you are getting back some of your strength, there are things here to occupy your time. You can spend your days in the study. I'll let you finish waking up, then we can help you to get out of bed and walk out there."

A little frustration escaped him in a roll of the eyes. "I cannot wait until that is something I can do entirely by myself."

"Patience." She patted his hand. "Patience."

* * *

Nadir reached forward and slid the bishop into the space of a pawn. Picking up the captured piece he looked eagerly across the game board as Erik flinched at the loss of another piece. Four days since they had settled Erik back in his usual rooms in the eastern wing, the old Persian had decided today was a good time to reintroduce Erik to one of his previous favored past times. He had loved chess. The elements of strategy, the complex deceptive maneuvers, and best of all, he had relished the feeling of trapping an unwitting opponent. Though they had often played, Nadir rarely won.

Erik's eyes staggered over the board, never really settling anywhere as he tapped his forefinger on the edge. Uncertainty manifested itself as the minutes ticked by. But patiently Nadir waited, suppressing any desire to sigh out. He was trying, it was just not the lightning quick strategy he had grown accustomed to … in fact, abysmally, he realized he wasn't seeing any real strategy at all. From the looks of it, Erik was just moving pieces about the board.

In the silence, he reached forward and took hold of the black marble knight. Sliding it directly forward a few spaces he withdrew his fingers only to find Nadir shaking his head, trying to hide his disappointment. "That's not how a knight moves."

Blankly, Erik stared at him.

Pointing with a finger, he suggested, "Here and here are legal moves. But a knight doesn't move straight upon the board, ever."

Erik flexed his left hand into a fist, grumbling to himself. "Who taught you all this nonsense?"

"You did," he replied with a calm smile. "At least you tried to teach me some complex strategies. I was regretfully a poor student."

Shaking his head slowly, he mumbled, "How am I supposed to play this infernal game if I can't even keep track of how the pieces move!"

The scratch of a pen across the page of a notebook filled the room. Wright was seated at the marble-topped mahogany desk narrating as he took notes. "Patient is exhibiting some memory recall issues, cognition only marginally improved. Hostility apparent during episodic frustration."

Erik turned a heated gaze towards the doctor he had forgotten was in the room. Trembling with a growing rage, his hand reached up and snatched a piece from the marble chess set. He was drawing back in the act of throwing the piece when Rosalind trapped his hand in both of hers.

"I think perhaps that's enough attempts at crowning one another today." Blocking Erik's view of the surgeon, she held out her hands. "How about we get you on your feet for a bit?"

Nadir relaxed the moment that he saw him relinquish the king piece to her. Had he thrown that, the doctor might have ended up doing surgery to remove it from his own skull. Carefully securing the pieces in the hidden drawers, he put the board away for now, even though they had not come even close to finishing the first game.

Very carefully, Rosalind helped Erik rise from the sofa. Holding him there long enough to let him find his balance, she watched him closely, feeling for any sign that he might be in trouble. He was walking better now with sufficient strength to hold his own meager body weight, only requiring a steadying hand if he started to lose his balance. His muscles were not fit enough to catch him if he fell. With his arm across her shoulder and a fair amount of concentration, he was shuffling across the floor with a semblance of coordination. Secretly, she thought it might be a good day to try something without him being the wiser.

They were passing by a beautifully gilded frame enclosing an architectural sketch. Glancing up at it, she inquired. "That looks remarkably like this mansion."

He didn't look up at first. It wasn't until both his feet were flat upon the floor that he lifted his eyes to where she was looking. "Nothing remarkable about it. That is _Clef de Voute Manoir_. One of my original drafts for it. You see the entrance here with the columns? Well, that decided the entire scale for the building, which ended up rather more extravagant than I had intended when first my lead touched the page."

She cocked her head, purposefully stepping a little closer and watching to see how Erik, in his distraction, was adapting to it. Absently and with markedly increased coordination, he moved closer. "You live in this wing … but this one here is mostly empty. Especially now. So you mean to tell me you built an entire extra wing with no purpose?"

"Nonsense," Erik quietly retorted. "It had a purpose. Balance. Without it, the entire structure should have become vulgar in appearance. That's not something a proper architect should ever compromise on. Especially within his own place of residence."

Just off to the side, another gilded frame embraced a foxed draft. This piece was much larger, showing an interior cut of a building seventeen stories tall, including several basements below ground level. It was an elegant work with a vast theatre at its heart. The work was astonishingly intricate and clearly quite old. "Come now, though I have never been to Paris, few would fail to recognize its Opera. How on earth did you get your hands on a draft from it?"

Without much hesitation, he took a step toward the frame. His hand rested on her shoulder, but he was practically standing on his own. His finger pointed to an elaborately swirled signature in the lower left hand corner. There were so many curls that it was difficult to read the letters buried beneath. Very slowly Rosalind unraveled the scrawling signature.

"You drew this?" She was astonished. "You worked on the Paris Opera?"

He nodded, letting his hand fall to his side. "Almost no one knew of my involvement, save Garnier. It took no small amount of coaxing to convince him that permitting me to assist in building the monument was to his advantage. I allowed him to hide me within the paperwork. The government never knew of our contract. His tastes were a bit extravagant … but the end results were satisfying."

Absentmindedly, Erik took another longing step toward the draft. By now, only the finger tips of his left hand touched her shoulder. His right hand drifted up, touching the glass that protected his work. His eyes misted over with tears threatening to fall.

"You miss it, don't you?" she asked softly, not wanting to jar him from his reverie.

"It was … my home, for a time." He blinked, taking in a deep breath as he shook his head. "I mean, like one. It took so long to build. I never seemed to leave it. Ignore me, I don't know what I'm saying."

With a reassuring smile, she gazed up at the vast gilded halls. "It looks beautiful. I can see why one would never want to leave."

"Part of me never really did." A shiver rippled through him as his eyes drifted down to the lower vaults, losing their focus on the floor of the casement that protected the foundation from the underground lake. The draft was accurate, save for one detail that never appeared upon any draft ever made — the house below the fifth cellar was missing.

The sudden melancholy that overtook him was heartbreaking. Rosalind needed something to capture his attention. Something else before he lost his spirit enough she would have to try and carry him. It's not that he was heavy, simply so tall.

Truly there were framed pieces everywhere … but something about this third piece so close to the others was enough to tell her there was some hidden significance. Pulling his attention to this gilded frame, she narrowed her eyes, reading the words below. "Music Hall. Now, I'm fairly sure I have seen this. In fact. I'm fairly sure I saw this corner right here from that balcony right over there." She gestured to the easternmost wall of his study, where a windowed door led to the balcony that wrapped most of the second floor.

Erik's gaze drifted up and he confirmed her suspicion. "Music Hall was its original name. It took some convincing for Carnegie to put his name on the building, even though he financially backed it."

Her eyes widened. "You knew Andrew Carnegie?"

Taking a step toward the newer draft in the frame, Erik was now standing entirely on his own as he brought his hand up to indicate both his own elaborate signature and the signet of his company. "Of course I did. I was a silent partner in the Hall project. He was interested in the auditorium having the most perfect acoustics for music. A hall to rival even those in Europe. How could I resist? That hall was more than an investment … that hall is a crowning achievement, a gift to the world." It was faint, but a smile hinted as he brushed the frame.

More than just listening, Rosalind was watching as Erik lost himself within the lead lines of the work. His mind wasn't obsessed with concentrating, it was simply acting. Standing, he gestured with a hint of grace that she had heard he once possessed. It was there, Erik just had to learn to trust his body again.

Heavy footsteps fell behind them as Wright looked up at the framed drafts. He saw the fine lines and structures, but his lack of imagination robbed him of the full power of the vision. "How do these scribbles become buildings?"

Erik deliberately turned an insulted glare towards the doctor, staring down at the much shorter man for his impetuous statement. "I wave a magic wand called a chisel against stone. Stone — which is what a chisel is supposed to cut!"

Withering slightly beneath the glare, he retreated from the room without further remark.

Releasing a sigh, Rosalind took Erik's arm across her shoulder before he should come to realize how much he had done on his own. "How long did it take to build Carnegie Hall?"

"A year, and it ended in a grand gala." Once more, a smile was beginning to hint there. "Six concerts over five days."

"It was glorious!"

Everyone turned to the unexpected voice in the hallway door where Damrosch beamed beside Christine. "Look who followed me home from Carnegie Hall, my love."

Walking into the room, Damrosch held out his hand. "Good to see you up and out of bed, Erik."

Carefully, they shook hands making certain that the broken finger was spared any excess pressure. Erik clung to Rosalind's shoulder as they walked into the room, back towards the couches. However, Damrosch's pathway carried him further into the room. "What are you up to?" Erik eyed him as he settled comfortably on the couch.

Christine patted his knee as she snuggled up beside him. "Just sit back and enjoy."

Even Nadir glanced over in surprise as Damrosch opened up the keyboard of the Erik's Steinway, running his fingers across the entire range. "Nice. It's still in tune." Seating himself on the bench, he gave a short little bow. "Christine requested a little private concert up here in the study as this piano has gone un-played for far too long, and master Daae is still away. And so, I am only too happy to oblige. A little bit of music would be nice."

Cautiously, Christine searched Erik, hoping that she had not made a mistake with her plans to lift his spirits. The music was not gone … only dormant while his fingers could not yet play it. He needed to remember how the notes could lift the soul and make the heart soar, something he once inspired in others … once inspired in her. He sat a bit stiffly beside her, his eyes wide as he watched Damrosch rest his fingers in the keys.

"Let me see, where shall we start … ahh!" Without saying another word, Damrosch launched into _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,_ knowing how much Erik enjoyed Mozart.

It wasn't long before Erik's body succumbed to the lure of music. Swaying to the pulse, his expression softened and his eyes gazed into another world — lost, but in the way he had lost himself to the music before. The tension drained from him as Damrosch brought forth an array of pieces he knew to be among Erik's favorites from the composers he admired. Hours passed in the glow of the music, interrupted only by Rosalind needing to give Erik his codeine. He was doing so well, she didn't want the pain to sneak up on him.

"Alright, alright." Damrosch at long last rose from the bench, flexing his fingers. "I think it's time for a little intermission." Sitting down beside Erik, he only now asked, "I trust you are feeling well?"

Erik had to wipe a tear from his eyes before he grasped the director's hand. "Much better … thanks to you, my friend."

* * *

Leaning on the bookcase, Erik perused the contents of each shelf, running his finger over the spines of each of the books as though his touch were reading them. On occasion he would slide one out and consider it before putting it back.

"What do you think you are doing?" Rosalind barked from the doorway, only just having come back upstairs from returning his breakfast dishes. "I know you have been feeling stronger these last few days, but you shouldn't be up on your own without anyone here, if … "

"If I were to fall, yes yes, I know," Erik replied in mild annoyance. "That's why I'm holding onto the bookcase. The damn thing was built directly into the wall. I assure you it is sufficiently stable enough to support my meager weight."

Approaching his side, she cocked her head. "Seriously, what are you doing?"

He shrugged, returning to the case. "Looking for something to read. I'm bored."

"Ahh, I see. Well, I was going to suggest a nice session in the sun on the balcony, with those special tinted glasses. It is a rather beautiful May afternoon."

"Nice as that sounds," he muttered as he replaced a book, "I'll pass. The tinted lenses help, but I had a miserable headache afterward. I think perhaps it is too soon for that much light with my eyes as they are."

"And you think they are ready to focus on fine print in the dimmer light of this room?"

"Will I know before I try?" he replied with a little smirk.

It was good to see him consciously attempting more, yet in the back of her mind she was a little concerned that in his endeavors, he might encounter another devastating setback.

In the middle of the case he suddenly stiffened upright, his eyes narrowed before he cast them out towards the drape covered balcony door. "Where is it? It was always right here. I know it was always right here as I could see it when I came in from outside. Christine must have been cleaning in here and moved it … "

"Moved what, dear?" Christine had heard her name as she entered the room with a small vase filled with fresh cut flowers from the rooftop garden. Rosalind offered her a quiet nod.

He glanced over his shoulder. "The music box. You know, the one with the nightingale and the rose. My favorite, the one that plays _Forbidden_. The song I wrote for you." Looking up and down each shelf his eyes commenced a frantic search. "Where is it?"

Setting the vase down on a table, Christine swallowed very deeply, her color draining a few shades. Demurely, she approached, gently taking both of Erik's hands to focus his attention on her. It was hard won, his eyes kept darting about. "Darling, please, you need to listen to me. Erik … there we are now. I have to tell you something. You won't find the automaton in here."

"Why? Is it down in the music room?"

She sighed, casting her mournful gaze to where the beloved piece had once been enshrined. "No, my love. It's not down in your music room."

"Where is it? Where did you put it?" He begged, "Christine, I made that music box thinking of you! Pining for us … for the once lost love! It's one of my most prized possessions. Where is it?"

Bowing her head, she barely breathed out the words, "You smashed it." Her hand pointed to one of the oak shelves bearing a scar, a deep indentation from an object having struck it with great force.

Erik's jaw trembled at the sight, at the evidence he only now had come to see. He had no words as he took a staggered step toward the shelf, his fingers examining the wood.

Letting that much sink in, Christine entered the bedchamber. A moment later she presented Erik with a box containing the salvaged remains of the beloved automaton. Gears and levers twisted and bent, the mangled stem of the jewel inlaid rose, the decapitated remains of the nightingale's once animated body.

Running his fingers over the destruction, Erik looked as though he was caressing the corpse of a beloved pet torn from his grasp by tragedy. He shook his head stiffly as he lifted from the debris what was once the handsome head of the passionate nightingale, his beak frozen open in a terrified silent scream.

"What … what have I done?" Erik's fingers gently pushed the wide lids closed, shutting the bird's eyes.

"You didn't know what you had in your hands that night, Erik. You'd been in a great deal of pain that day, lost your temper and in the darkened room it was just an object … I saved every piece I could find, it should all be there."

Looking at the contents of the box, he turned the head over, gazing at the wires and levers, the gears inside it. Distantly he muttered, "I built it once … I can repair it again. I just need my tools from the laboratory." Turning towards the door with the box still in hand he was stopped by Rosalind's firm grasp.

"You're not setting one foot outside this study, and certainly not on a flight of stairs." She steered him back toward the desk. "We'll sort out this mess, Christine can go fetch your tools."

"Gladly." Without delay, she dashed out into the hall.

Setting the box on the desk, Erik pulled each piece from the confines and started to organize it. There were hundreds of parts from the internal mechanisms splayed out. Some of which he readily remembered, most of which there was only a vague inclination of the use. At least the turning drums with the music carved into them were all unscathed, but they had been broken free from their bracing. By the time Christine returned to set the tools upon the marble, Erik was already completely engrossed with this conundrum, murmuring to himself about springs and wires, gears and trigger sets.

She gave a slight smile to Rosalind, "Well, there will be no gaining his attention for sometime. We'll have a hell of time getting him to bed now."

The nurse offered a shrug. "At least he won't be bored any longer. Was that music box really all he said it was?"

"It was pure magic." Christine blushed. "Wait til you see it, wait til you hear it … it was a masterpiece. It was our masterpiece."


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter 16**_

It was a gear. One of many, and yet it mercilessly taunted him as he stared at the toothy surface. Erik stared at countless hours worth of work upon the device … he knew by now it had been days, perhaps even over a week's worth of effort to put it back together again. It was proving to be a daunting task. Between the stiff splinting of his finger hampering his dexterity and the struggle to recall precisely how the device had once worked, he had made an abysmally small amount of progress.

Rubbing his eyes through the mask's eye holes, he set the gear aside on the marble-top before reaching over and taking a sip from the wine glass beside him. It was such an odd feeling to wear the mask again. All his life had been a strange mixture of emotion towards the singular piece of attire. He both loathed and clung to the mask. It was his shield that he must depend upon to keep the monsters at bay — the savage nature of humanity. The mask lent him a mysterious air and it kept away the vulgar curiosities … such as that surgeon. For well over a month he had been aware of the inability to wear the garment that was once his dignity. He felt a sense of relief and ease, once more able to comfortably conceal his flawed skin from sight … even from those who knew and respected him. Wearing the mask was too ingrained.

The room was very quiet in the late morning. Rosalind was off procuring some fresh supplies and wouldn't return for a few hours. Christine had gone down to Carnegie Hall in preparation for an afternoon concert … Erik dearly wished he could have gone, but his current condition would have compromised the story she had been telling of his trip to Europe. Afterall, he still wore bandages and his gait still suffered some serious impairments. One look at him and society would know he had been ill. The only company Erik had was Nadir. Glancing up from the desk, he had to laugh. The poor old Persian was _resting his eyes_ , keeled over on the sofa at a rather strange angle. Oh yes, he was doing such a marvelous job watching over his charge. Let him rest, it's not exactly like Erik wasn't aware of his own current limitations. He knew better than to overexert himself by leaving the study.

With a crooked grin, Erik picked up another piece of the immense puzzle that had been occupying his time. Where did this little lever and its spring belong?

The echo of footsteps up the main foyer's staircase caught his attention. A voice humming a contented little tune proceeded its owner down the hallway. A door opened to the words, "Ahh, it's so good to be home!"

 _Charles!_

Bolting upright, Erik knew that voice! Today must be the day he was coming home. How long it had been since he had seen him. Absentmindedly, Erik pushed himself up from the desk. Keeping one hand on the desk, he carefully worked his unsteady way around it. Transferring his hold to the back of the sofa, he worked his way to the door, where he leaned for a long moment already feeling the burning in the muscles beneath the satin robe. He shouldn't go any further, his body warned him that he only had enough stamina to return from whence he came. But the lure of the humming … from here he could see the open door to Charles's room, just over the distance he had already traversed.

The carefree melody drifting through the hallway pulled at him. The thought of once more embracing his son could not be dismissed … could not be prolonged. It had already been too long. His foot shuffled out crossing the threshold in the hall. Using the wall as a guide Erik, staggered each step, pushing away every feeling of alarm his body threw at him. All he knew was that once he reached that distant doorway, he would once more lay eyes upon his progeny.

Breathless, and clawing to stay upright on his burning limbs, Erik at last leaned upon the door frame. There he was, standing with his back to the door. Since Erik's last clear memories of him he had grown so tall. Tall, with a moderate build he moved with a subtle grace he had inherited. His dark hair brushed the collar of his wheat colored jacket. As he turned his head ,offering a slight silhouette, his features had settled out of the awkwardness of youth and into the handsome set of the man he was rapidly becoming.

"Mother? I'm home … Ah!" Charles had caught sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye. Upon turning around, his skin flashed white, the flute he had been unpacking brandished like a sword in his right hand. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. "Oh God! You're out! What are you doing out? Mother! Nadir! Mother!" His nervous cries echoed down the hall to be heard by none but Erik.

"Charles please … " He panted, fighting to stand a little more upright, and failing. "Charles, stop. Listen."

Shaking his head violently, Charles slashed the flute in the air producing a sharp discordant whistle. "Oh no! Not again! Absolutely not again! You shouldn't be here! Not here! You should be down there! Down where you belong!"

Erik's knees trembled at the sight of his son's en garde stance. He remembered, all those years ago, the young boy in the middle of his fencing instructions growing angry and throwing down the gloves. The fear, the fear that one day Erik would find himself at the end of his son's blade … it cut him deeply. "Charles," he pleaded, "stop and listen … they know, they released me … "

"Stop lying! You lied before!" His brown eyes caught the light, anger and fear emanated from them. "I won't be conned again by some stupid quack that convinced mother he could cure you! No! Too many times they've let you out and too many people have gotten hurt as a result!"

"If you struck me now … I could hardly move in time … " he pleaded. His heart raced as he released his right hand from the frame, shaking horridly as it journeyed up towards the mask. His words were not reaching the boy, who still wielded the flute as a weapon. Pulling the mask free, and with it the bandage covering the incision, he let his hand drop to his side. Let him see …

The flute shivered in the air as Charle's eyes widened. Gradually the hand that held it lost its strength as he took a staggering step backwards. "My God … what have they done to you?"

Hanging his head wearily, Erik felt the effects of the exhaustion draining his ability to string words together. "Surgery … a tumor … some time ago … Charles … "

Dumbstruck, he stared at the incision, his mouth working but producing nothing for a long moment. At first, his stunned mind crippled by the word _tumor._ His whole world just froze. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. For over a year, his father had been a raving lunatic, a completely unpredictable force that threatened the safety of anyone around him. Too many times they had treated him and let him out of his chains … every time he had slammed violently back into the madness.

Dismally his left hand rose up and brushed the scar on his right wrist. The scar that his father had left behind. A burning shiver stole through him as he remembered the fear and the pain of that night.

Against the door frame, Erik felt it taking more of his weight as his weak legs began to buckle. He tried to lock them, as the sweat from the overexertion continued to pour down his face. Panting for breath, he dug his nails in, fighting not to fall. "Charles … please … too much, I have … walked too far … can't get back … Charles please!"

Locked in stasis, Charles could only stare as his eyes slowly perceived the reality. The man before him was but a frail shadow of his former self. There was no strength or bearing in him as he sucked in air with frantic gulps. Charles tried to imagine those limbs capable of a swift strike and found it entirely beyond belief. In fact, simply looking at those shuddering limbs he could hardly believe this man was standing at all.

"Charles!" He cried out in alarm. "I'm falling!"

Fighting every self-preserving urge within himself to stay as far from this man as possible, he could not deny that Erik's pleading gaze was genuine. Discarding the flute onto his bed, he swiftly put his shoulder under his father's arm, pushing up his weight and finding it alarming scarce.

By now, Erik lacked the breath to even speak. He was left panting for air, hanging off his son's grasp like a rag doll. Slowly, Charles made his way back toward the study, trying to wait for Erik's feet to shuffle forward with each step. It was a tortuous process as each time he glanced at his father's down-turned gaze he expected to find those mismatched eyes lit up with insanity. All he saw was a desperate weariness, a man drained from exhaustion.

Lowering Erik's shuddering body down onto the empty couch, he withdrew a few paces, staring awkwardly as he watched his father's eyes shutting, the mask and the bandage still grasped in his hand. What had they done?

"Charles?" Nadir sat up with a start. "You're home early, your mother is at a concert. She'll be back soon. Erik … "

Turning his haunted eyes to the old Persian, Charles whispered out, "I already know, he found me in my bedroom. What the hell have you done and why the hell wasn't I told?"

Chaffed by the reply, Nadir cleared his throat. "He walked to your room? Oh dear … that is way too far for him! Charles, it's only been six weeks since Doctor Wright removed the brain tumor. Erik's health is still quite feeble, he isn't supposed to be walking far yet without support... "

Stamping a foot, Charles snapped, "Why wasn't I told!"

Holding up his hands in defense, Nadir stuttered out, "Wasn't my idea. I advised your mother to inform you … it was she … it was her thought that there had been so many disappointments in the past that she wanted to wait until we were certain the improvement was lasting. She wasn't expecting you until tomorrow when she planned on being home! She was going to tell you then."

Flexing his hands, Charles felt his heart racing as his head spun from all this chaos. "Before … they said he was better before … remember their declarations … remember the blood."

Pulling himself up onto the crutches, Nadir hobbled over to the young man. "I know, it's been hard to keep up the hope. But believe me, I think this time there is a real chance."

Charles was too dazed to even notice that splinted leg as his eyes drifted back his now sleeping father. "I just don't know … I just don't think I can trust it this time … I need to lie down."

Without another word, he fled seeking the safety of his own room. Locking the door behind him he collapsed on the bed, shaking as the memories flooded back over him. Crying himself to sleep, he found no pride in his actions … but he also could not escape the painful past.

* * *

In the late afternoon, Christine climbed the stairs with a smile upon her face. Entering the study, she found Erik sound asleep on his back, the bandage around his head, but the mask sitting on the table before the hearth. Nadir shifted from his seat on the other couch with a yawn. "Oh, good. You're home. If you will excuse me. I believe my bed is calling and another dose of my pain medication. I fell asleep upon the couch too long." He was close to the door when he paused. "Oh yes, Charles is home. He was quite weary from his arrival and went into his room to lie down." Hastily he left … it was close to the truth. Anything more and he would have to confess that his inadvertent nap had allowed Erik the chance to leave the room!

Beside the couch, Christine let her fingers brush through Erik's hair before she rose on the news that her son was home. Quietly she approached the door, rapping her knuckle against the wood, she hoped for a reply. There was none. Trying to turn the knob, she discovered it was locked. Well, Nadir had said he was tired. It was a lengthy trip from Harkness Academy.

A voice caught her attention, drifting from the study … plaintive moans followed by a cry. Rushing back into the room, she bent over Erik in the grip of a fitful sleep. Gently she brushed her fingers against his bare cheek. "Shh, easy, easy … wake up, Erik. Wake up."

His eyes cracked open and the instant he saw her, his hands clasped onto her hands, pulling his body up into her embrace. He was shuddering, sobbing. Hot tears dripped on the back of her neck as she held him tightly saying nothing, just letting whatever had troubled him pass. These were not the nightmares of the past, not nearly as intense. But even a regular nightmare could reduce a full grown man to tears.

After several minutes, Erik's death grip relaxed incrementally. His breathing grew steadier until he was able to croak out, "I'm sorry … your dress … it's wet now."

"Hush." She brushed the tears from his face. "A little water won't hurt it any. Are you alright?"

He shivered, his half-awake eyes drifting around the room. There was no real reply to her inquiry.

"You stay here, love. I'll go change into something more comfortable and when I come back how about some reading? Does that sound good?"

Hesitantly he nodded, watching as she vanished into the bedchamber.

* * *

Staring at the ceiling, Charles tried to convince himself all this was just a very bad dream. It had been a long carriage ride from upstate. He had been quite drained from it. Perhaps he imagined what he found lurking in his doorway. He shuddered as he recalled the sight. This wasn't happening. He was supposed to have come home to a nice happy reunion. Graduated from Harkness Academy, he was supposed to begin his apprenticeship at Carnegie Hall in a few days. Already Damrosch had eager students lined up for the remarkable Charles Daae to tutor. This was all supposed to be a grand movement into the rest of his adult life … and then, to return to find …

Disheveled, he pushed up from his bed and drifted towards the door, unlocking it. Opening the door a crack, he peered out making certain the hallway was deserted and that some knife wasn't being lobbed in his direction. Nothing was there.

Cautiously, he made his way towards the study. Everything was silent inside the room. He wasn't quite ready for what he saw when he entered.

His mother, dressed in her night shift and robe, held a finger to her lips as her tranquil eyes gazed up at him from the couch. In her lap, his father's head was cradled as he slept, a book steepled over his chest. It was positively serene. A feeling of dread continued to inhabit Charles's heart, even as his mother gestured for him to bring her the blanket flung over the other couch's back.

Absentmindedly, Charles did as he was bid. He held out the blanket as she carefully extracted the book from Erik's hand, setting it aside. Gently she draped the blanket over him, he didn't even stir.

"He fell asleep while trying to read, poor soul," she whispered sweetly. "We can talk, just keep it soft. He still sleeps a lot these days." Smiling up at Charles, she reached out a hand to him. "You came home early! What a wonderful surprise."

He remained stiffly before her, his eyes warily locked on Erik. "I wish I could say it was a wonderful surprise for me."

The refused hand drifted back down to rest upon her lap. Confused, she studied her son. "I had intended to tell you the news when you arrived here, darling. Whatever is the matter?"

He swallowed. "I should have liked to have known before I turned to find him standing in my door. It was a rather rude surprise, Mother."

Shocked, her eyes darted to the couch where Nadir had been. "He shouldn't have gone that far … your father doesn't have the stamina for that yet." It sunk in with a heavy revelation. "Oh dear! No wonder he could barely stay awake when I got home!"

"Mother." Charles intensely demanded. "What have you done? I thought you promised me after that last time, no more reckless procedures!"

She gently stroked Erik's shoulder. "Darling, please listen to me. This wasn't reckless."

"There's a hole in my father's head! He had brain surgery!"

"Shh! Keep your voice down! You need to understand, that the surgery removed a tumor that was killing him," she replied firmly. "Since he has regained true consciousness, we have seen no signs of those vicious attacks. Charles, your father is getting better."

He trembled with anger, fighting to keep his voice down. "How could you have known that? You were so sure before! So sure when that one doctor let him out on good behavior! How long did that last before he destroyed the music box? Thank God it was a bookcase he threw it at and not you!"

Slowly she closed her eyes with a long sigh. "I know it's hard to believe. But trust me, it's the truth this time. He has a long way to go yet, but already there is some remarkable progress. Give him a chance."

"He struck me!" Charles held up his right wrist, pulling down the sleeve to reveal the faint scar. "Mother, you saw it, you watched as his hand flew back in a demented fit and he struck me for no reason at all! You expect me to just forget that? Every time I see this or I see him, that's all I think about! The madness burning in his eyes."

Holding out her grasping hand, she tried to get Charles to come to her, but his reluctance to approach the sleeping figure of his father was written on his face. "The madness has been removed, there was a reason for it. Please, Charles, you need to try to understand."

Withdrawing further back toward the door, he shook his head. "I just … just don't think I can … "

Pensively, she ran her fingers through Erik's hair, struggling for words as she begged her son. "I can understand your apprehension. You haven't been here to see how much he struggled, how desperate a fight he has put up. Charles, for the whole of this time his life was stripped away, denied to him. Now, he is fighting to put the pieces back together again. He's asked where you were, he knows what he did … we have told him."

Charles held up a hand. "Told him?"

"Yes, memories were not forming properly in the later stages." She sighed, twisting a lock of Erik's hair. "It's probably a God-send that he doesn't remember."

Tensing, Charles shook his head. "How is that fair? The rest of us have to remember!"

"He feels terrible!" Christine fixed him with a stern glare. "You'd never say those ugly words if you had seen how much it crushed him to learn what he had done in absence of his mind! It wasn't him in control when that happened."

"Than what was it?" he snapped back. "A demon?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes! If that helps you, I don't think he would even disagree with you. Charles, promise me you won't be cruel towards your father."

Holding out a hand he declared, "I can hardly stand to be in the same room! I can't tell you how fast my heart is racing right now! I can't shake the thought that he'll leap up and try to throttle me!"

She looked down at Erik's gaunt figure and shook her head. "Shame on you for thinking that. Use your eyes and you will see that is quite impossible. If he moves too quickly, he passes out."

His eyes confirmed her words, but inside he was still trembling. Shaking his head, he turned for the door. "I'm still tired … I think I need to lie down for the next hundred years."

"Charles, remember what I said … "

There was no reply.


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter 17**_

Charles paused with his fingers on the lock of his door. It had been a fitful first night back at home, tossing and turning, haunted by the nightmares of the past. He kept telling himself he was being ridiculous. For heaven's sake, he was seventeen years old. He was considered a man by society. Men did not sob into their pillows over bad dreams. With the daylight his reality once more plagued him … it was not a bad dream that was at the heart of his problem. No, what troubled him was undeniably real. What was he going to do, stay locked behind a closed door forever?

With a sigh, he turned the latch and opened the door. Voices drifted from the study, revealing the house was already up and stirring. Tiptoeing down the hall, Charles peeked his head around the door frame to find Nadir sitting across a chess board from his father, who had his back to the door. The old Persian was intently studying the board for his next move. No matter what Charles tried, he could not force his feet to cross the threshold. They refused to obey him as his heart rate thrummed in his ears. This was no way to live!

At last Nadir made his move. "I believe that is check."

"The hell it is … " Erik remarked while looking over the board, his voice losing conviction. "Oh, you're right … it is. _Merde_! That's four times now you've bested me."

He laughed easily. "It's not over. Don't just give up. I haven't trapped you yet, it's only a check. There are still some legal moves."

There was a tapping, the sound of marble hitting marble in a nervous cadence. "Confound it … how did you get so good at this game?"

"I had an excellent teacher."

Drifting back from the door before anyone noticed him, Charles leaned against the wall, his heart still pounding against his ribs as his fingers brushed up against his scarred wrist. It had happened in that very room over an ordinary conversation. They had just been talking, about music … an idle chat about how wind instruments produce such fine tones. Then, in an instant, something had changed. The tenderness had left his father's voice as the madness sparked in his eyes. The rage was so sudden, so unexpected. All he had been able to do was reel back and try to protect anything vital. Burned into his memory, the image of Nadir tearing into the room and tackling his father, dragging him down in a violent fight that at long last ended with a well delivered blow to the head. Blood, his own blood was everywhere around the room as he had tried to flee in his terror. His mother had grasped him, holding the bleeding limb up as the way was finally clear. She had rushed him to a nearby hospital where they stitched and bound the wound. They returned to find a somber Nadir telling that the plan they had long hoped never to have to rely upon had been carried out … a ring of keys clasped in his hand. For months Charles's wrist hurt. Playing his flute was impossible as the wound throbbed when he lifted it too long. The final concert of the year was supposed to debut another of his unique compositions … unable to play, he had lost the heart to even attend. That a year had passed made no real consequence to him. In his mind echoed the image of how very swiftly things had changed.

What was he going to do? Overwhelmed, he couldn't enter that room … how was he going to avoid coming across his father? There was only one place of refuge that came to mind.

Dashing down the foyer stairs, Charles hastily left the mansion behind. Slowing his steps to appear as relaxed as possible, he adjusted the sleeves on his dress coat and the long tie about his neck. Professional … he was a professional now. No longer a school boy … he had graduated and was a man. He needed to look as one.

Without a pause, Charles entered Carnegie Hall and made his way directly towards the offices, directly to the office of Walter Damrosch. He was quite relieved when he heard the familiar voice carrying though the open door. "That should not be a problem, gentlemen. I can arrange a rather pleasant ensemble for the event. We have a few groups that would be more than happy to attend. Give me a few days and I shall send word directly to you with the details."

A pair of gentlemen exited the room with a polite nod to Charles as he passed by them, walking up to Damrosch's desk.

"Maestro Damrosch?" He was fighting to keep his voice even.

"Well, Monsieur Daae, what a surprise! I wasn't expecting you for a few days yet." Damrosch offered a warm smile.

"I know." His eyes shifted a bit. "I was hoping to begin my apprenticeship a little sooner, if you would have me."

With a start, Damrosch put down the page he had been holding. "I suppose that could be arranged. I am forever requiring assistance … but wouldn't you prefer to rest at home for bit? Spend some time with your mother and father?"

Charles visibly flinched.

"Oh … " Damrosch drew in a breath. "Your mother didn't tell you, did she."

He shook his head, his fingers drawn to his wrist. "I just … I just can't … "

Holding up his hand for silence, Damrosch crossed the room and shut the door. He came to the front of his desk, leaning casually against it not far from the now distraught Charles. "Alright, you can be frank now. Tell me the reason you came rushing into my office begging to be distracted."

His eyes fell to the scar and he shivered. "I can't look at him without being afraid it's going to happen again! Too many times mother said he was alright when clearly he wasn't. You remember, you saw what he did. It makes me terribly nervous seeing how normal they are acting with him out … how happy they are."

"And you're not." Damrosch replied quietly, watching as shame blushed on the young man's face. "Clearly you are not happy to have seen him, not like the rest of us."

"You think he can be trusted?" Charles gasped.

Very slowly, he nodded. "I do. But then again, I have been at the bedside many times throughout his recovery. I have seen him struggling over the simplest of tasks. I have witnessed a side of him I never fathomed I would see … that of your father so hampered by a situation as to bend to the point of breaking. Had I not seen it, I would not have believed it possible."

He tried to listen, not just hear the words. Crossing his arms over his chest, Charles hugged himself, worry pinching his features. "Have there been any signs … of … of … "

"You can say it out of his earshot." Damrosch confided. "The insanity. No. I have not seen anything of that condition since the surgery. Frustration when his body limits him, yes. But any reasonable person would display that. I would be lying if I did not admit to seeing his temper flare. But it is the normal temper we are familiar with. I am being honest with you, Charles. I understand your fear, and it is not irrational. Take the time to talk with him and you might be surprised to see the change."

He shook his head absently. "I … I need some time first."

Heaving a sigh, Damrosch set his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "I will let you seek refuge here, but only for so long. You cannot avoid this forever."

Charles gave a slight shrug of his shoulder. "I know. I just need to escape in the music for a while."

That brought forth a smile and short laugh. "So like your father without even knowing it!"

Cocking his head, he stared in dumbfounded silence.

Gesturing to the Hall, the director gave a fond smile. "Erik would always come here to escape the world. This was where he came when he needed a distraction from something that was bothering him. The music was a conduit to help him think, to help him reach a solution." Holding a hand out to Charles he nodded, "And so do you seek the same now. In the balm of music lies the tranquility of the mind to seek the key to one's salvation."

"Wise words." Charles sighed.

"Wise indeed." Damrosch rose from the edge of the desk. "They were your father's."

Blushing with shame, Charles stood in silence, waiting at the director's disposal.

"Alright, I don't have a lot of glamorous tasks at the moment. But there are currently a few rooms in quite a terrible disarray, too many events planned and not nearly enough time in-between them. If you could start with the Director of the Art's Office, there is a veritable blizzard of sheet music! Just shelving it again would be a great help."

Charles swallowed in the silence that followed. Director of the Arts, that had been his father's office. Of course, he had ceased that role some time ago. But that did not remove the fact that the office once belonged to Erik.

The discomfort did not escape Damrosch, who was rather discretely watching his new apprentice hesitating to exit the room. There was a reason he had chosen that room first. "Monsieur Daae, that was a dismissal." He added lightly to help cover the reluctance. "When you finish, come find me."

With a shaky nod, Charles left the room and ventured down the hall to the darkened office. Opening the door with an overwhelming feeling of dread, he tread into the vacant room, chanting to himself. _It's just a room, just an old office, just a room._

Picking up the first bound musical score, he slid it into the proper place on the shelf. Piece after piece he lost himself to the mindless task.

It was a long day filled with menial tasks spanning practically the whole of the Hall. The sun had set into a mild May night when Charles finally departed, walking the two short blocks home. Quietly, he entered by the servant's entrance, ghosting through the kitchens to snatch a roll and some cheese before cautiously making his way upstairs.

Glancing towards the study, a figure caught his attention. At the desk sat his father. Consumed by some task, he was busily working with an array of pieces and parts spread out across the surface. So engrossed upon this activity, it seemed that nothing short of the house collapsing upon him would divert his attention. Drawn a little closer, Charles observed the fingers he had once known to possess unrivaled dexterity … that was gone. The hands he saw labored to complete even the simplest of actions. Only now did he realize that the right hand bore a splint. On the desk he came to recognize the debris that was once the music box. The same music box that he remembered marveling over when he was but a child in this home for the first time … a young boy, lying injured on the couch tended by … tended by … those very hands.

How things had changed. When he was but a small child it had been a marvel to sit and watch his father's hands perform the most astounding of tricks. As he had grown, time revealed a darker past, a side that his naïve mind struggled to accept … eventually he found he could not deny it. To go back, to return to that youthful naïvete was now his greatest impossible wish … why couldn't he be like his own mother? She knew the truth and all that went with it. Her eyes gazed up at this man with all the confidence of the world, as though he could do no wrong.

Somberly, Charles turned back toward his room. The room provided for him in his father's mansion … the room that Erik had specifically furnished for him once his mother had decided they would be staying. Shameful guilt washed over him as he shut the door, his trembling fingers turning the lock. He wanted with all his might to turn it back, to leave the door unbarred … but he couldn't find the resolve. Leaning against the door, Charles hung his head, sliding to the floor as the weight took hold of him. His meager dinner fell from his limp hands as he drew his knees up to his chest with remorse. This was no way to live.

* * *

"Charles?"

He nearly dropped the stack of musical programs in the middle of Carnegie Hall's foyer. Was that who he thought it was? Spinning on his heel, he found the radiant beauty almost running towards him before the stern governess glared her back into suitable decorum.

"I mean, good morning to you, Maestro Daae." Folding her hands before her, she settled the upset ruffle of her elegant damask dress. In the last year, she had really matured, growing into her figure and learning how to bear it well. Though her body showed graceful restraint, her bright eyes captured him, as they had since they were but blushing children.

Trying not to drop the load in his arms, Charles attempted a slight bow, which ended up rather awkward. "Good morning to you, S _ignorina_ Chantelli. You look well." Oh, how he wanted to just wrap his arms around his sweet Simonetta! However, the hostile glare from her governess effectively quelled any notion of that. He had to mind his manners. Simonetta had not been presented yet, courtships were forbidden before such an event. Besides, Charles was too young; lacking his inheritance and only just beginning the steps to earning a respectable living as a professional musician. Until he proved his own merit, he would never be considered a proper suitor.

Minding her manners, Simonetta demurely replied, "I have been well, thank you. It is good to see you are back from your schooling. My brother informed me you have graduated and Maestro Damrosch offered you an apprenticeship. I was hoping to see you here."

The governess cleared her throat, silencing her charge.

Charles saw the daggers in the matron's eyes warning him not to overstep. He merely nodded his head in reply.

With a sly smile, Simonetta's fingers which had been toying with her lace glove accidentally dropped it to the floor. "Oops! Oh dear!" Without a second thought, Charles set the programs on the floor, picking up the glove. Simonetta used that opportunity to lean down and whisper quickly. "Piano lesson. Wait outside the room after." Taking the offered glove, she replied louder, "Thank you, Maestro Daae. Always the gentlemen. I shall have to take more care of my gloves. Good day to you." She passed by him with a hidden wink.

Charles stood in the midst of the marble hall, his heart fluttering in his chest as he watched her proceed to her lesson. How was he going to wait long enough to secure her hand in marriage? They had already promised one another in secret, one of the many hours they had spent having stolen away from the prying eyes of chaperons. He sighed, picking up the programs before trudging off. He had an hour to occupy his time while she had her lesson. The longest hour of his short life!

At last, lingering outside the door, he nervously glanced this way and that for any signs of the governess who would tan his hide if she found him. The door opened, Charles pretended to be busy as her tutor wandered down the hall. The moment it was clear he darted into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Thank God she didn't see me!" Charles huffed a few breaths. "The venom in her eyes, the years have not been kind to that one!"

Simonetta's crystalline laughter filled the room as she embraced him warmly. "Oh, my brave, brave suitor-in-waiting! Remember that she is only doing her job."

"I know." He shrugged. "I just wish it wasn't so difficult to get a chance to speak with you … privately."

Drawing back, she cocked her head. "Charles, is something the matter? You look … dreadful."

He heaved a sigh, rubbing his wrist. "Yes. You are so very perceptive. I am sorry, we should not fill this stolen time with petty concerns."

Taking his hand in her lace gloved embrace, she shook her head, dark curls bobbing with the motion. "Don't be silly. If it bothers you, it is not petty. Come, tell me. Whatever is it that has darkened the circles around your eyes, my love?"

Leaning against the wall, Charles told her about what he had found when he came home. All along, he had confided in his sweetheart about the family turmoil. She had been one of the few to know the truth of where his father truly had been this whole time. She had kept it a dutiful secret as well, not even telling her family. Finishing the details of the recent revelation, he hung his head. "I am a terrible cowardly son for what I have done! But Simonetta, I swear I cannot help it!"

Resting her hand on his shoulder, she guided him over to the piano bench where they sat side by side. "Darling, don't even say that. That would have been a shock to anyone. In time, I think he'll understand."

"For that to happen, I have to figure out how to be in the same room." He moaned. "I can't even feel comfortable with an unlocked door between us."

"You need to talk to him, Charles," she insisted quietly. "There is no other way around it. You have to go and talk with him."

He shook his head hastily. "My heart will beat right out of my chest. I don't hate my father, but he scares me right now … what happened before scares me."

She nodded holding up a hand. "But the others have said things have changed since the surgery. Think about it, he's undergone a rather serious procedure. He was hardly strong enough yet, and even still, he came down the hallway overextending himself to reach your bedchamber when he heard you. Charles … he wasn't stalking a victim. He was trying to see you again. I can only imagine how much effort that took, what did you say it's been, six weeks?"

"Yes. Six weeks now … and he looks … " He closed his eyes thinking about what he had seen. "He looks terrible, like some poor wretch out of an asylum. I just can't shake the image."

Taking his hand in hers she stole his gaze the moment he opened his eyes. "Charles, your father wasn't truly insane like everyone first feared. Now we know he was suffering from a brain tumor. That is a curable condition. You can't keep treating him like a lunatic. Sit down, across the room if you like, and talk. See with your own eyes, hear with your own ears. You are a perceptive young man." She raised a hand and brushed his chin. "That's one of the reasons I love you."

"Signorina Chantelli?" The door opened up.

Both sets of hands dropped to the keys on the piano "Thank you, Maestro Daae. That was most helpful advice, I appreciate the further explanation that my tutor left unclear."

A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead as Charles withdrew his hands from the charade, resting them in his own lap. "Always at your command, Signorina." He hid a wink as she withdrew to her governess. Only after the door closed did he dare to exhale! That was close!

* * *

"Wait a minute, Erik." Rosalind handed Erik the teacup with the fresh slice of lemon. He sat by the empty hearth looking up at her inquisitively. "You can't just ramble like that and drop the subject. Just how many languages do you know?"

Nadir threw his head back in laughter as Erik squeezed the lemon with an expression of indecision. "Now, I suppose that is a rather good question."

"Well?" She waited for an answer, tapping her foot.

Taking a long sip of the tea, Erik languidly set the cup back in the saucer before closing his eyes in concentration. A moment later, he started to speak a short sequence of words changing the language or dialect in a rapid succession. As each one shifted, the vowels and consonants changed accordingly. Rosalind quickly got lost in the rapid patter of words.

Rolling his eyes, Nadir spouted. "I'm not sure dialect variants, accurate as they are, should count! Now you're just showing off!"

When at long last Erik muttered the last word and opened his eyes. He shrugged, "Well, that was a linguistic tour across Eurasia. I apologize as that was hardly in the proper longitudinal order."

Stunned, Rosalind widened her eyes. "Who cares about the order! Erik, what was that?"

"Oh, 'good afternoon', or its equivalent." He was about to take a sip when his eyebrows raised. "Ah! I neglected one, English. Shame on me."

"Heavens me, how on earth did you learn all that?"

"Erik was a suspicious and untrusting vagabond." Nadir put forth with a smile, nibbling on a biscuit while ignoring the dark glare he received. "You see, every place he ventured to he sought to learn the language so no one could cheat him in a deal or insult him without his knowledge. Being a damnable quick study that he is … the results show."

"Vagabond?" Erik muttered over the rim of the teacup. "Of all the words you could have selected in all the languages I have taught you, and you chose vagabond to describe me."

"Well, I'm sorry." He chuckled, enjoying another nibble of the biscuit before concluding. "Do tell what a more apropos term would have been for a traveling magician?"

The glare was heated, but Erik was forced to calmly shrug as he took another sip of the tea. "Touche, old friend. Touche."

She took the empty cup and set it aside with a laugh. "A magician? Really? What a life."

"Oh yes," Erik replied dryly. "It was positively the most rewarding period of my life. What a rollicking riot the sideshows of the traveling faires were. Puh, you'll never catch me anywhere in the vicinity of one of those travesties ever again."

"They aren't so bad." Loading up the tea tray, she smiled. "I remember seeing an illusionist when I was just a little girl at a sideshow. It amazed me to see what he could do. The powers of levitation … "

"Child's play," replied Erik curtly. "Wait til my finger heals and I'll show you something that will really make you doubt your senses. Besides … if you ever saw the deplorable conditions that illusionist lived in compared to the master of the faire, you would cease to be amazed."

"It didn't seem to be one of those deplorable operations."

A rather rude sound escaped Erik as he eyed her. "You think they let the public know what goes on behind the scenes? Oh my, no. They are all the same. A miserable scheme where those who are humiliated to earn coins have them stolen from their starving hands."

Her eyes lost a little of that amused light. "I guess, I assumed they got everything that was handed to them."

He shook his head severely. "No. Depending upon the strength of the muscle surrounding the master, a performer could sometimes scrape in as little as a tenth of what the crowd proffered. Cuts were even less fair when the poor soul receiving it lacked the faculties to know he was being robbed blind."

"Did they ever steal from you?"

"Not once they learned the price of doing so." Erik flexed his fingers with a sly grin. "The cut I took for their pains was far greater."

"Erik!" shouted Nadir.

Indignantly he quipped. "In coin, Nadir. Coins, nothing more. You were witness enough of how easily I practiced legerdemain. I simply lifted the remainder of my earnings from their pockets and didn't bother returning the rest. Serves them right for thinking I could not count!"

A shadow in the doorway dashed the room into silence. Charles pulled his gloves off one finger at a time, his eyes locked upon the floor as he cleared his throat.

Noting the tension in the young man, Rosalind retreated to the door with a polite bow. "Excuse me, I should return this to the kitchen."

Charles's finger reached up and loosened the tie around his neck as he struggled to take another step. From the couch, Nadir almost wanted to hand his crutches to the poor boy for how crippled he suddenly seemed.

"I … uh … I am … " Charles dragged himself a little closer.

"Good afternoon, Son." Erik calmly interjected into the uncomfortable silence. Laying his arm across the back of the couch, he waited respectfully as Charles slowly lifted his discomforted gaze from the floor.

"Are … are you well, Fa … Father?" he stuttered out, feeling like a fool for asking such a thing.

"My health is much improved," replied Erik smoothly, but there was a slight tremble to his voice betraying how very moved he was by the efforts he was witness to. "I am indebted to your mother for her faith."

Charles darted his head down, his fingers tearing the gloves in shame.

"Son." He tenderly begged, "Please, just come here. Sit, let us catch up on things. It has been so long."

Ramming the gloves into his pocket to cease the endless nervous habit, he shook his head. "I would prefer to stand … if that's alright."

Deflated, Erik's gaze fell to his son's trembling knees. The boy looked as though about to bolt out the door, regretting his choice to enter in the first place.

Respectfully, Nadir stood up and offering Erik a nod, he hobbled out of the room on his crutches.

Alone in the study, Erik and Charles both stared at the floor in a tense silence. At long last, it was Erik who tentatively broke it. "I am sorry, deeply sorry that I hurt you. Your mother and Nadir told me of the events of that night. You have my solemn word, that was not truly me." He held a hand up without daring to raise his eyes. "I make no excuses, I ask for no forgiveness as I understand why you are upset. All I ask is that you believe me when I vow that it shall not happen again."

Silence, only the harsh breathing of a very conflicted Charles. He tried several aborted times to raise his head. With a frustrated grunt, he shut his eyes. "They say you're better now … they say your faculties are gradually becoming your own. Father, I want to believe it. I truly do, but … but … "

Erik nodded solemnly. "I understand."

"You do?" Charles eyes flew open, stunned at the calm words in reply. "You understand that I think there is a chance you might still be … still be crazy?"

"Yes." The tone was level, collected … but with a hint of pain. "It is only logical to desire proof after such a lengthy display of … reprehensible behavior. How can I blame you for that?"

Reaching up, he brushed a tear from his eye. "I don't want to think like that. You have to believe me … I don't want to think of you as … "

Erik bowed his head. The unspoken word stung, he had known from the moment his son had turned around in the bedchamber how deeply the events of the past had scarred him. "Charles, son … whatever you need to say to put this behind you, I will weather it and bear you no ill will."

He took a step backwards, shaking his head vehemently. "No. That's not what I want … that's not why I'm here! It's just … I need time. I need to see that things are truly alright."

Carefully, Erik rose to his feet. The effort of his action showed plainly on his face as he leaned on the arm of the couch to gain his balance. "Then … how shall I prove it to you?"

It was a supreme effort for Charles not to draw back, to remain where he was, swallowing down the apprehension. "Don't … don't overexert yourself, please!"

He released a quiet laugh. "I have been resting much of the day. There is a limit to how much my body will permit, but I assure you, I can walk a little without harm. I just cannot do so with any haste or I should end up on the floor. Charles, I am not a threat to you now. Not you, nor anyone."

He watched as Erik took several measured steps over toward the bookcases, his hand reached out, edging along it for balance. There was no doubt this was not an act, no more than when he first laid eyes on him.

At last, pausing, Erik held a hand out to the couches. "Please, sit. We have much to talk about."


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 18**_

The rain pattered against the oaken door as the servant closed it behind Christine. Every click of her shoe on the staircase echoed in the foyer. It had been a long carriage ride from the concert and she was eager to see how Erik was faring. Even before she reached the top of the stairs, she heard a voice from the study.

"No, that spring is the wrong size. The tension is all wrong. See?"

 _Erik._ She smiled. He muttered aloud to himself often these days.

"Are you sure? What if you turn that gear?"

She halted. _Charles?_ Cautiously, she edged up the last few steps and clung to the shadows. Peering around the door frame, she held her breath. There they were … father and son leaning on the desk over the bits and pieces of the music box. So rapt in their contemplation of the device that they had failed to notice she had returned.

She could not help smile at the sight. So long ago, the last time she had seen the two of them together engaged in a normal activity.

Behind her, a faint tapping caught her attention. Nadir edged up beside her on his crutches, he too remained in the shadow of the door as he whispered, "They've been at it for hours now. Don't you worry, I never left them completely alone. Always in earshot, just in case. But since this morning's tea things have progressed."

She placed a hand on his. "I scarcely believe it. Am I dreaming?"

"If so, we both are."

"You were right, Nadir. Giving them space was all they needed."

He chuckled softly. "The boy is as stubborn as his father. And Erik, despite his feeble body, has not lost any of his resolve. Pushing either of them would have been a grievous mistake."

Inside the room Charles grasped a lever and wound up the box. "Well, shall we see how it sounds?"

Erik tapped the desk with his right hand, the splint on his finger catching the lamplight.

The moment Charles released the lever, musical notes pinged in the air. Discordant notes in a stilted pattern.

Erik cringed and jerked back from the desk, covering his ears. "Naaah! That is not my song!"

Christine covered her mouth. "Oh no!" On the verge of swinging into the room, she halted.

Beside his father, Charles set his hand on Erik's shoulder. "Easy. Maybe you were right about that spring after all. Let's just look this over again."

Charles waited, maintaining the contact as Erik regained his shattered composure. Gradually, his hands came back to rest on the edge of the desk. Wordlessly, he picked up the silent music box and turned it in the light.

"Alright." Charles pointed into the device. "So, we've got the drive gear here. And the … "

Nadir leaned forward and embraced Christine's shoulders. "Let them work for awhile. Come, I had tea brought up. Let's go have a nice cup and you can tell me all about the concert."

She released her hold on the frame. "That was so close."

Nadir nodded to the pair inside where Charles listened patiently as Erik's halted words attempted to explain the workings of the device. "Not the first time. This is something the two of them must figure out together. Come. I have a nice spot around the corner where we can hear them."

She watched over her shoulder as they made their way to the window bench. Nadir grinned, from here the words echoed clearly but there was no direct line of sight from the study. "As long as they are talking calmly, all is well."

The patter of the rain on the windows accompanied by the soothing tea lulled Christine into a slumber. Hours later the tinny metallic notes drifted in the air and drew her from her dream. She opened her eyes to find Nadir leaning on his crutches, peering down the hall.

The song … the melody of _Forbidden_ danced on the air. She stood and tip-toed down the hall as the harmonies engaged one at a time. Erik's beloved dedication to their love echoed once more in the hall.

Behind the desk, Charles embraced his father. Erik wept silently, his tears staining Charles's shirt. Rain pelted the windowpanes and a rumble of thunder announced the storm had not abated.

Christine and Nadir quietly entered the study. The song continued to play. Erik remained buried in his son's shoulder, even as Charles gazed up at his mother. He mouthed, "I understand now."

She reached down and squeezed her son's hand. The music box ran its full course and clicked to silence. Christine wound it up and let it play. By the time the song had finished, Erik's full weight leaned against his son's shoulder.

She whispered, "He's fallen asleep. Here, I'll carry him to bed."

Charles shook his head. Careful not to jar his father awake, he picked Erik's frail body up and carried him to the bedroom. Christine watched from the door as Charles tenderly adjusted Erik's sleeping body into bed and pulled the covers up. "Rest well as you need to, Father."

* * *

Erik's frantic cry shattered the dark room. In a tangle of covers, he thrashed and tumbled off the edge of the bed. His legs, slow to catch him, crumpled and landed on his hip. His hands grasped the edge of the bed in wild desperation.

Startled from her sleep, Christine lunged forward and clutched his hands. "Erik. Look at me."

A flash of lightening tore across the sky, illuminating his pinpointed eyes. He gasped for air, his eyes refusing to lock on any one thing.

"Erik. Wake up. It's a just a bad dream."

He tried to stand. But his legs just crumpled beneath him. " … away … away away … coming … no … coming … "

She rubbed his white knuckled hands. "Home. You're home. Look at me."

His wild eyes took hold on her for a moment before darting off again into the darkness. He wailed, "No more! Dark … dark … no more … closing … "

Her hands embraced his cheeks. She held him firmly even as he tried to feebly pull back. "Home. Say it … home."

The pinpoints focused on her, and then slightly widened as he took a few shuddered breaths. "Ho … home."

"That's it." She brushed her thumbs against his cheeks, letting the motion bring him out of the daze.

"I'm … home." He shut his eyes tight for a few breaths. When he opened them, the pupils adjusted to the dark room. With a mild alarm, he noted he was on the floor. His legs trembled with each attempt to rise.

Christine reached forward and grasped his shoulders. "Let me help you back up."

"Damn it. Damn these feeble legs. I have to be able to do this on my own."

"Patience."

"I have been patient!" He pounded his fist on the mattress.

She gently tugged him back onto the bed. "Are you alright? You didn't get hurt did you?"

Erik grumbled, "No. Unless you count my pride."

She laid him back against the pillows. "Why don't I fetch some tea. That always helps you rest when the nightmares trouble you."

He sighed and pulled the blankets up. "Walking did a better job. But I clearly am incapable of taking a stroll."

"We can if you want."

He rolled away from her with a grunt. "It will not be the same."

She tried not let the rejection bother her. Resting her hand on his shoulder she asked, "Would you still like the tea?"

He shrugged.

Wordlessly she exited the room and wandered down the dark stairs to the kitchen. If only there was a stronger balm to Erik's torment. Tea could only fix so much.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19**_

The summer breeze stirred the curtains in the study. Shafts of sunlight twisted into the room, but they added no cheer. Dr. Wright leaned forward on the couch. "Madame Daae please, I ask you to just speak with your husband. Make him see that coming with me to Boston for a study is the most intelligent decision for him."

Christine slowly closed the book and laid in her lap. She folded her hands on the cover and met the doctor's eyes. "Let me make something abundantly clear to you. No one can force Erik to do anything. While I appreciate your services in restoring my husband, I will not betray his desires to be treated as a human being."

Wright pursed his lips. "His recovery is remarkable. Now that the incision has healed and the splint is off his finger, he is the picture of health. If I could have access to him and his journals in Massachusetts, my associates and I would be able to glean much knowledge from this case."

"He will not wish to be treated like an experiment."

"I assure you, everything will be done to ensure for his comfort."

"Except respecting his dignity." She glanced over at the window.

Erik lingered there, most of his weight stabilized by a brass handled cane Damrosch had given him a week ago. With the cane, Erik gained independence, able to wander the second floor with less risk of falling. Now he clung to the shelter of the window frame, his haunted gaze down the street as had been for the past ten minutes.

She knew what his fixation was. Carnegie Hall. Recently she had heard him muttering about going down there, returning to his precious music. But his limbs still trembled when he reached his limit. His body remained incapable of even a facade of his former grace. Society would know at a glance he had been ill.

Wright's incessant prattling intruded her thoughts. " … misunderstand me. I would never place such a remarkable patient in a deplorable situation."

Christine set the book on the end table and fixed him with a level gaze. "As my husband would put it, evidence has been to the contrary. If you do not know of what I speak regarding your bedside manner, then I daresay your judgment in the future of his life is very much in question. Good day."

She remained seated as Wright stiffly stood and walked out of the room. Only then did she let the tension drain. She came up beside Erik and followed his gaze to the Hall's corner.

"It still stands."

He showed no sign of noticing her.

She fixed a wayward strand of his silver hair and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Erik. Don't torment yourself. Come away from the window before someone glimpses you. Remember, they believe you are still over seas on business."

Painstakingly, he turned from the window and walked to the piano. The clack of the cane on the floor announced his every step. Christine remained beside him as he sat down on the piano bench. His eyes stared at the closed keyboard before drifting up to the restored music box perched on the top lid. The bejeweled nightingale rested his wings in anticipation of song, the rose bud's petals shut tight from the world. He reached up and hesitated before brushing against the bird's beak.

His beautiful melody filled the air. The bird shifted through a series of motions in time, courting the budding bloom. An embodiment of the story of the forbidden love between the lovesick bird and the shy rose.

Seated on the bench beside him, Christine slid the lid of the keyboard back.

As the final strains of the song hung in the air, his hands ventured up and brushed the ivory keys. He squinted as his fingers sought to settle on a place in the row of keys.

In the silence she waited for him.

Erik inhaled slowly, closed his eyes and played a chord. He lifted his fingers. They hovered over the keys, his gaze searching for the next one.

Christine got up and crossed the room. Retrieving Erik's sheet music for _Forbidden,_ she set the pages on the stand and sat down beside him.

A long silence followed as he studied the chords on the page. Then, tentatively, he began to play. Every note tripped in the air from stiff fingers struggling to find their place. But he played onward.

Rosalind drifted into the room with a tincture in her hand. She paused, staring in wonder as the music filled the room. Christine glanced up and held her finger to her lips. The nurse set the glass down and took a seat on the couch, raptly watching.

Unaware of the new arrival, Erik persevered on his efforts to reconnect with his dormant muscle memory. His actions so unlike the confident musician before. His eyes hung on every note on the page for dear life.

Countless times before, she had heard this piece, each time rendered with Erik's drive for utter perfection. Marred with his desperate struggle to restore the touch with his music, this was the most beautiful she had ever heard it. So raw, each chord an exploration. Nothing was certain. Like love.

She turned the pages for him. Each movement, a trembling grope to reclaim what was lost. The music was still there, still inside him. But like the cane he now relied on, the notes on the page effected the mobility. The fluidity was hesitant.

The final chord died in the air. Erik's fingers rested limp on the keys, his gaze more hollow then before.

She rested her hand on his. "So lovely to hear you play again. It's been too long."

He closed the sheet music and sighed. "Too long. So long it is gone."

Rosalind quietly picked up the tincture glass and placed it on the edge of the piano. "It's time for another dose. You're almost free of needing the medicine now. Almost back to normal."

His hand trembled as he reached for it. "Normal … no. You fail to realize." He brushed the side of his head. "The music once ran through my mind like a rippling stream. Where once it sang perpetually … there is only silence. I am a cripple, more than just physically. Once I felt the pulse of the music as keenly as my own. No longer. Now, I can not play without seeing the notes on the paper. A profound hindrance."

Taking the empty glass from him, Rosalind offered Christine a worried glance.

"Erik dear." Christine smiled. "You're expecting too much too soon. It's been well over a year since last you played."

He ran a finger along her cheek. "When we were reunited you had hardly performed, and yet you retained all your skill. That feeble attempt was … "

"Self doubt," she interrupted. "And that's quite enough of that for one day."

"You're right." He sighed and pushed up the piano. "I shall spare you any more of my babbling." To the tap of the cane he made his way for the bedroom.

"Where are you off to now?"

"To lie down. I have had enough of normal for today."

Rosalind sat down beside Christine and rubbed her hand as Erik closed the bedroom door. "Has he no idea how lovely that music was?"

Christine blushed. "He remembers what he once was capable of. Who can blame him for the longing. The music once flowed from him like a wellspring."

"Well, needing to read sheet music or not, begging your pardon madame, that was extraordinary."

"I know. We must help him to see that."


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter 20**_

Erik could not recall the last time he had been in this room. The replica of Christine's dressing room from the Paris Opera had become her private space since she moved in … how many years ago? He bowed his head, time escaped him once more. Curse this wretched condition.

It had taken him countless weeks to gain enough strength and coordination with the cane to wander up to this third story secret. Now he sat before one of the only mirrors in this house, pondering why he had been so drawn to come here.

To escape the aggravation of that pestering doctor, for one. The past week he had renewed his efforts to convince Erik to come to Boston every opportunity that Christine or Nadir were absent. Wright had learned to keep his mouth shut when they were around. If it were merely Charles, well, that was apparently no consequence.

Erik sighed. He had been forced to hide within his own home.

And yet, something else lingered in his mind. No matter how many times he left the room following the suggestion that he play, Christine continued to leave hints. This morning he found his Stradivarius lying atop sheet music on the piano lid. He had come painfully close to picking it up, just to hear a single note from her sweet strings again. But his hand shied from touching her.

Memories lingered in his mind. Another time. Another instrument he dared not touch least he tarnish …

His gaze caught smudges of black on the white marble counter. Curious.

Opening the drawer he discovered a book. The pages inside were stained from frequent use. Delicate writing covered them. Her writing.

Leaning over the book he picked a page close to the beginning of the journal and began to read …

… _It's scarcely believable. Had someone told me years ago that Erik was alive here I would have called them mad. Had they told me of the transformation, well, I should have had them committed. And yet,09 here we are. How he has grown from our reuniting, all those days when his gestures stalled in an effort to touch me. So tentative, so shy._

 _His music graces the stage, and he is frequently the toast of the Hall. Remarkable how my shy Erik has blossomed into daring to show the world his talent. My greatest pleasure is when Damrosch allows us to perform together. No one can move the spirit greater than Erik. I was dead back in Paris without him. Reunited, my passion has found higher heights._

 _His mansion is nothing like the lair before. It's beautiful and warm. And I have come to take tea on some afternoons with Nadir. The old Persian is never short a tale from their early days here in Manhattan. I shudder when I think of how vulnerable Erik was in those years. I dared to take a carriage through the Bowery and glimpsed the tenement they used to dwell in. As difficult as my own situation was in Paris, it pales by comparison._

 _Charles is fascinated and begs Erik every moment they are together for some feat of magic. Tirelessly, Erik complies. My usually graceful husband is awkward around his son. I have no doubt that Erik desires to make up for the time lost between them, the time when he had been unaware. But here his inexperience shows in the most charming of ways. I swear, beneath the mask he is blushing more often than not. Charles simply adores him._

 _It has taken so very long, but at last the world has made this right. I am where I belong. Where I will remain forever._

 _With my Angel of Music …_

Erik closed the book with a trembling hand. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

"But … I am no longer … I can not … the music is gone." He took a deep breath and replaced her journal.

Staring at his image in the mirror, he hardly recognized the gaunt masked man. So much had changed. So much stripped.

Timorously he pulled the mask off. The straight line scar in the middle of his forehead caught the light. It was healed, but the puckered ridge remained. Likely it would for the rest of his life.

He brushed his fingers against it. Numb. Only his fingers registered the contact.

Inside his head, silence.

He shut his eyes and fought the welling sob. She had been strong all this time. Confident that he would return. And here he sat, an empty shell of his former self. How could he betray her devotion like this?

Slowly, he forced himself to gaze once more at his reflection. His fingers brushed the glass. Did this shell harbor more than just an echo? Or did he truly belong in the confines of the hospital ward?

He shuddered. No. That ridiculous doctor did not deserve the chance to indulge his savage curiosity.

Sitting up as straight as he could, Erik glared at his reflection. The brooding facade drilled into him. If not in truth, the mask could be worn again. It was time to convince that fool to leave.

It was time to carve an unmistakable image. It was time to show Christine that her faith would be rewarded.

* * *

A white pawn rolled across the back of Erik's hand in a repetitious series of cartwheels. Distantly, he stared into the fireplace from his seat on the couch. Some days ago, the dexterity that carried the game piece in its endless dance had been beyond him. The object had been a large coin rather than an irregularly shaped chess piece. Idly he shifted his fingers and in the space of a cartwheel the pawn became the white rook. Two moves later it was a bishop, all without even a single glace.

A frustrated breath broke the silence as Nadir leaned back from the board between them. "Your move."

Erik barely glanced from the hearth. With his free hand, he snatched up his black knight and swapped it with the white pawn. "Checkmate." Before Nadir even looked at the board, the new white pawn had replaced the rook in Erik's shifting fingers.

Narrowing his eyes, Nadir scanned the board in a frantic circle to find the declaration true. His plan had caused him to fall right into a waiting trap that left his king wide open to either Erik's knight or his ambushing rook. Mumbling into his hand, he consented, "That was rather short sighted of me."

"Indeed," he replied, the white king having joined the array of chess pieces that were carelessly dancing around his fingers, disappearing and reappearing in his palm.

When had he reached over and seized the king?

Despite having been completely defeated in the game, Nadir grinned with amusement. "Well now, two revelations! You have finally beaten me at chess."

"Not something of any great consequence," Erik replied smoothly. "Your strategies are abysmally simple to outwit."

He held up a hand. "That may be true … however, this is the first time in countless games since … "

With a slow sigh, Erik nodded his head in begrudging agreement. "I will give you that. I have not won until this game. You said there were two?"

With a laugh he pointed to Erik's hand. "Are you even aware of it?"

His eyes shifted down, betraying a little surprise to find his fingers occupying themselves without his direct instruction. "Hrm … that's interesting." Shifting through the pieces in swift succession, he at last paused with a piece between each finger of his right hand; a rook, a pawn, a bishop, and the king.

"Your dexterity has vastly improved! Especially if you were doing that without thinking."

Shrugging, Erik discarded some of the pieces onto the game board. Rogue fingers procured a few of his own black pieces. Wordlessly he began to practice a few sleight-of-hand basics making the pieces change color from black to white, piece to piece. There was little amusement in his gaze as he analyzed the motions with a sigh.

The scratch of a pen across the room filled the silence, Wright's muttered words carried over the crackle of the fire. "Patient is demonstrating increased motor functions in dexterity. Patient also has demonstrated increase in cognitive functions through the strategic game of chess."

Erik scowled in the doctor's direction. "Patient is showing a marked increase in impatience concerning a lack of privacy."

The pen carried on past Wright's own muttering. Gradually, the pen halted as he realized too late he had parroted Erik's own words and was beginning to write them down in his notes. Shutting his eyes, he shook his head to Nadir's amused chuckling.

Closing his notebook, Wright looked across the room at his patient. "If you would, Erik, I'd like to see you walk across the room."

His hand closed in a languid motion about the brass handle of his cane, but Erik did not rise. His expression became an unsettling calm that Nadir recognized as his friend reaching the end of any good humor. If he were being honest, this doctor was growing into a meddlesome pest. It was a miracle Erik had tolerated his presence within his mansion as long as he had.

After the silence lasted long enough to demonstrate there would be no ready compliance to the request, Wright rose to his feet and paced toward the fireplace, his path followed by Erik's masked gaze. "You've made remarkable progress since the surgery, considering that is one of the largest tumors of its kind I have removed. And how very uncomplicated the recovery was."

Nadir's eyes caught a change in the color of Erik's knuckles at that last remark. They flashed white under the tension of a tightening grip. Undoubtedly, Erik did not agree with the assessment.

"Here we are months later and you are speaking clearly, walking, able to dress yourself, the dexterity you show is amazing for someone having suffered your affliction." Wright's fingers folded over the edge of his coat as he grasped it with a proud smile. "This surgery was an astonishing success, and you … well I must say, Erik, you are a truly unusual patient."

The finger's twitched again, Nadir began to lean a little to the edge of his chair, preparing to seize the cane from Erik's hand should the foolish doctor fail to realize his folly before triggering the foul temper.

Reaching his hand out toward Erik, Wright grinned from ear to ear. "That is, I wanted to remind you of my invitation to have you come and stay in Massachusetts at the hospital where I research. I assure you, there are many very learned men who would be eager to make your acquaintance. You would be quite comfortable and constantly involved in a series of lectures."

Almost ceasing to breath, Nadir locked his eyes on Erik's stiff form. How could this doctor be so incredibly gifted with the knife and so devoid of critical thinking, after having been warned to drop the subject? _Please don't kill him, Erik!_

Painfully slowly, Erik brought his other hand to rest upon the cane. Entwining the fingers of both hands, he let them drape over the head of the cane. It was the only motion in his rigid body. His voice was soft, so quiet Nadir and Wright had to lean closer to catch the words. "So, I am to be your guest. I am to be the subject of study and medical discourse for you and your medical cronies. Put on display to be observed and understood for the benefit of humanity. Is that what you are requesting of me?"

Wright nodded eagerly. "Yes. Considering the remarkable transition from your previous insanity to now, my God, Erik you would be quite an attraction at the lecture hall!"

The tremor was subtle, Nadir would have missed it if he hadn't been watching very closely at the precise moment Wright had unwittingly called his friend one of the most degrading things in Erik's mind. Preparing to intervene he was surprised when Erik rose in one fluidly controlled motion. Coming to his full height, he leaned on the cane, still depending upon it for balance with each dreadfully slow step. It was obviously deliberate, he had seen Erik capable of much more rapidity. Coming to a halt before the doctor, Erik stared down at him condescendingly.

Coldly he declared in fluent Russian, a language that he was well aware Wright had no knowledge of. "You are about as subtle as an elephant walking over eggshells." At the completion of the proper linguistic alteration, he allowed himself a surprised grin of satisfaction. Excellent. Clearly, he had not lost his gift of tongues.

Wright's eyebrows wrinkled as he turned to Nadir, signaling for a translation that would not come, for the Persian was now laughing into his hands, having grasped the Russian and knowing what Erik had implied.

"Pardon me?" The doctor looked back and forth between Erik's cold stern gaze and Nadir's amused guffawing. "I didn't understand you."

"Then let me translate for you." Erik rapped the cane on the floor. "I believe you have reached the end of your usefulness. You are dismissed."

Stunned, Wright began to stammer. "I … but … Erik, you're still recovering!"

"You said it yourself," his voice remained icily calm. "I am walking and caring for myself with able coordination. I no longer require your inquisitive little prodding, I have tolerated it long enough. Do you need to be shown the door, Doctor? If you continue to protest I assure you I shall demonstrate a shortcut."

Nadir swallowed the laughter. Edging in-between the two men, he placed a hand on Wright's chest pushing him gently toward the door. "It is best if you go, please. We are grateful for the service you provided, your compensation will be as we arranged. But it is best for your health if you go — now."

Silently protesting, Wright's confused eyes took one last look at Erik before the study door was shut upon them.

Now alone in the study, Nadir turned with an exhaled breath towards Erik. "How did you manage not to wring his neck? By Allah, that is another sign there has been a change in you!"

Erik softened a little, his hand flicked up, the chain of a gold pocket watch trapped in his long fingers. With a mischievous smile, he opened it and studied the inscription. "Oh look, this _was_ an heirloom. Hope he dearly misses this."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Nadir's eyes widened at the pilfered watch. "Erik! Return that to him at once! The man may lack manners, but you owe him your life!"

His fingers snapped the case shut, in a swift blur it vanished from his hands. "Nonsense. Just because he saved my life does not mean I owe him mine. All I owe him is a significant amount of money in payment for his services. It shall still fall short of him being able to afford proper manners." His hand convulsed in a tight grip on the head of the cane as he paced the room. " _An attraction_. Like I am some sideshow for the medical community! The way he declared it was as though the intention behind it was justified … how different is a medical theatre stage from the stage of a common freak show?"

Lapsing into silence, Nadir knew it was better not to answer … because reason whispered in his ear that Erik was right, there was very little difference.

The tap of Erik's cane on the floor was the only sound within the room. "I want you to do something for me, Nadir. Take this infernal thing up to my laboratory and find the most unused place possible and bury it within that dark corner. I never want to see it again."

He looked down to find a familiar jar thrust into his hands. Within the tightly clamped glass jar sloshed around the yellowish fluid with the mass suspended inside. He nearly dropped it as his jaws fell slack.

Erik cast him a dark look. "Do you honestly think I was going to let him parade that around for medical prosperity? Truly you know me better than that."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter 21**_

"I can hardly believe it, Mother." Charles stood within in the bedroom, out of the line of sight from the study. Piano music drifted in through the slightly open door. "Has he been at this all morning?"

Christine nodded, as she appraised one of Erik's suit jackets from the wardrobe. "Piece after piece. Once he finishes, he folds it up and puts the next onto the stand. Hours of music. Before today he would maybe tinker with one of two before shutting the lid."

"Do you think … ?" Charles let the question dwindle in the air as the piano fell silent at the end of a piece.

She smiled and whispered, " … that he may be ready to arrive back from his travels? Why do you think I am here. He will desire to make as grand an impression as before. Nothing less will do."

"Damrosch will be thrilled."

"I should say. He has nothing but compliments to offer about your work. Word is that there is a waiting list for your instruction? For an apprentice this is nearly unheard of."

Charles tugged on his cravat.

The first note trembled in the air. They both turned to stare at the door.

The Stradivarius? The note was timid, followed by another. A slow series of scales filled the silence. Erik's beloved violin, played by him, for the first time in ages. Charles had, of course, kept it conditioned, but other than scales he had not dared to truly play her. She was his father's soul. And Charles respected it.

Gradually the notes gained fluidity. Not quite the quality Erik had once produced. However for his first efforts in close to two years, it was a profound joy to hear his fingers on the strings again. Christine abandoned the wardrobe and drifted to her son's side as the chords of a familiar song drifted through.

"There is a chance that no one will be the wiser. Listen to that, Charles. He's back."

Charles smiled down at her. "I never should have doubted you. I deeply apologize that I had."

"None would blame you in those bleak months. I had near lost hope myself. But now I think we can tuck these dismal times in our past. Erik may step back out into society and none shall be the wiser."

The notes faltered, followed by a shriek.

They dashed into the study to find Erik seated on the piano bench, the violin still in his hands. He gasped for air, his gaze fixed on something near his hands.

Christine knelt before him. "My love, what is it? Whatever is the matter?"

His eyes stared past her, toward the neck of the violin.

Charles leaned forward, "Father, you're scaring us. What is wrong? Did you see something?"

Erik trembled. "Look." His eyes never moved.

They studied his grip on the violin's neck and everything seemed alright. "Erik dear, please tell me, whatever is the matter?"

"It is over," he whispered. "Before it even begins … it is over. Look."

He lifted the violin as if to play. The starched cuff of his shirt slid down. Even on the other arm, when he raised the bow, the cuff shifted. Against his winter pale skin, the darker scars from the shackles betrayed him.

"I … can never play." He laid the Stradivarius across his lap and drew in a shuddering breathe.

Christine clasped his hand. "Gloves. Erik, no one will see these if you wear gloves."

A tear dashed against the polished wood. Erik somberly stared into the gleaming sheen.

Charles bowed his head. "No mother, for the piano, maybe. But not with the violin. A glove would impede contact with the strings." He laid a hand on Erik's shoulder. "Father is right. The moment his sleeve drops, someone is bound to notice."

Erik picked up the violin and shoved it into Charles hands. "Take it. Take it please. Put it back in the case. I do not want … no … I just … "

As he was bid, Charles carefully took the instrument and tucked her safely away in her case. Erik leaned on his elbows, his masked face gripped in his hands. Gently, Christine caressed his shoulder. "My love, please. You have been here too long. Damrosch and his wife are going for a stroll this afternoon in the park. Perhaps we should join them. It is a gorgeous day."

He seized the tip of the cane and pushed up from the bench. With a sigh, he walked to the open balcony doors and lingered just inside, his gaze taking in the landscape in full bloom. "What does it matter." His shoulders sagged. "What is done … is done. There is no sense in remaining a hermit any longer."

* * *

"Oh look at the lovely swans." Margaret Damrosch tugged on Christine's wrist. "Let's go get a closer look. Maybe they will dance for us."

Christine laughed and called over her shoulder. "We'll be by the pond."

Leisurely, Walter Damrosch tapped his cane without breaking stride. Behind him, Erik cut a somber figure, even more reserved than he had been prior. All things considered, he was walking remarkably well. Only because he was looking could Damrosch tell that the cane was not for mere show.

The park was alive. Children dashed around under the watchful eyes of their governess's. Gentlemen strolled about, taking in the sunshine. Ladies under parasols colored the park, a mirror of the summer blooms. A few glances and whispers turned their way. Damrosch offered a nod of his head with a smile to each passerby. In complete contrast, Erik kept his gaze fixed on the path without offering a single word.

Damrosch took a seat on a bench and stretched his legs out. A moment later Erik joined him, folding his gloved hands over the cane handle. His eyes looking at nothing in particular.

Casually, Damrosch remarked, "It's such a nice afternoon. I want to thank you for joining us. Margaret loves to come and see the swans. The stories that she and Christine come up with here."

A gentleman walked by, the tap of his cane against the ground stole Erik's gaze. Once he had passed, Erik looked back down at the one in his own hands. His shoulders crumpled a little more.

Keeping his voice down, Damrosch held up his own. "It's fashionable to have a cane. You shouldn't let it bother you."

"It is not that I have one. It is that I must rely on it, for what would seem the remainder of my life. For without it, I may fall." His knuckles turned whiter. "If they see, if they notice … "

"None of that now. You look resplendent as ever, Erik."

"The elite are like vultures, circling in their feathered finery looking for an opportunity to kill … a weakness."

Damrosch pointed out to the swans drifting in the pond under the amused gaze of their wives. "The elite are more like lazy swans getting fat off the compliments of gawkers. Don't fret. Now that you are back everything will settle again."

"I wish I could be so certain."

The swans took the air and a moment later their wives came breathlessly to the bench, a handful of discarded feathers in their hands. "This would look lovely on that old hat of mine. Just what it needs."

"Don't you have a lovely broach you could use?"

"Oh yes and a nice bright ribbon. It will look beautiful for the late summer concert."

Damrosch held up a finger. "That reminds me. The Symphony Society is rehearsing tomorrow afternoon, and I was wondering Erik, now that you are back from your travels, if you would be so kind as to grace the Hall with your presence?"

Slow to reply, Erik was cut off by Christine. "Of course. You have the concert program set. An exclusive chance to hear it. Oh how wonderful."

Damrosch concealed a quick wink to Christine. Her smile broadened.


	22. Chapter 22

_**Chapter 22**_

The orchestra filled the auditorium with Vivaldi's Four Seasons, as the sound of Erik's cane on the floor betrayed his arrival. Christine hovered by his side as they walked up the darkened aisle and settled into random seats.

At the head of the symphony, Damrosch seemed his usual self, lost in the movements. The place was alive, breathing with the lyrical power of the composition.

Christine folded her hands in her lap and smiled, even though Erik remained stoic beside her, the cane clutched in his white-knuckled grasp. He was out of the house. For the second day in a row Erik was in public. Perhaps it would be to his benefit that he had been known for being rather taciturn years ago. Perhaps this more withdrawn state would be interpreted as … well, Erik.

Damrosch turned the page and began the next movement.

Beside her, Erik stiffened. His hand grasped the chair in front of him. She sat up straighter. Something was wrong. Not with Erik. No. Something with the music was terribly off. Halfway through the movement Erik rammed the cane tip into the floor and dashed the room into silence.

"That is not how that goes! Damrosch, you fool. Can you not count?" As hastily as she seen him, Erik made his way around to the side door and up onto the stage. Christine followed on his heels.

Gruffly, Erik snatched the baton from Damrosch's hand and replaced him at the podium. "We begin at the first measure of the movement. With me, please."

A cowed Damrosch slunk to Christine's side near the wing. They watched as Erik's firm gestures lead the symphony in perfect time. His body lightly swayed. He relaxed into the music, moving with the pulse.

The proper pulse.

"So that's how it's supposed to sound." Damrosch mused.

She glanced at him to catch a flash of a smile.

"What? You did that on purpose?"

He shrugged and whispered back, "I heard that someone feared he would never find the music again. It's been in him all along."

She shook her head, her eyes glistening with tears as Erik immersed himself into Vivaldi. "Who told you?"

"Charles. My ego can handle a little sting if it means my old friend spreads his wings again." He winked. "And I am not finished with my scheming yet. Just wait."

At the end of the movement, Erik stepped back and held the baton out to Damrosch.

Damrosch offered a bow. "By my word, Maestro Erik, I had not realized how much your presence had been missed in your lengthy travels. Do stay. We have but one more sequence and I should appreciate your council afterward."

However, council was not the director's goal. Once the orchestra had been dismissed, Damrosch held out a copy of _Ode to Joy_ and he gestured to the organ.

Only subject to Damrosch and Christine's gaze, Erik dropped the confident facade. He wrung his gloved fingers as he stared at the open keyboard.

"We're alone." Damrosch took a few steps toward the organ throne. "I locked the door to the Hall. No one will intrude. It is only us."

Pensively, Erik eased himself onto the throne. He consulted the sheet music and set the knobs before hovering his fingers over the keys. Like an automaton wound and not yet triggered, he stared at the page.

Then, the organ breathed to life. Under his direction, the glorious swell dispelled the silence. Erik moved with the rhythm, his feet and hands engaged in an intricate dance, dictated by the passage of his eyes over the score. The delivery was mechanical compared to the free passion he once possessed, but beneath it all his heart beat in time with the rise and fall.

Sweat matted his hair as he committed himself body and soul to the moving piece. Until the last notes shook the walls.

Silence descended. His fingers slid from the keys to rest in his lap. The cuffs of his shirt still concealed the scars.

Damrosch and Christine stood on either side of him in awe. It seemed a full minute before they dared to remember to breathe. "Maestro Erik, please tell me you will join us on this throne at the concert."

Erik swallowed, his fingers clenched into fists. "I … I … this is not … I am no longer able to play without the notes before me. It is all different. Odd. So much thought devoted to each stanza. It is halting, staggered, awkward."

"None of that comes through the performance, Erik." Damrosch laid a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. "No one will notice the music on the stand. You would be seated, the cane would be no bother. There would also be no need to remove your gloves. This is perfect. I can think of no one better than you to bring the organ to life on such short notice."

Leaning over his shoulder, Christine smiled, "Erik, you always told me how you longed to have an organ in the house."

"I never got around to it." He stared at his hands. "I could never do it now. Even the thought of a chisel … " His fingers gripped his knees. "Everything is different now."

She loosened his deathgrip and moved his hand to brush the keys.

Damorsch replied, "No need. You can play this one here. I know what it means to you."

Erik shut his eyes. "Do you? I do not believe I have told you … " He caressed the keys soundlessly. "When I was but a child, the strains of the organ carried from the church. A bespelling call. I was to be confined to my house, but the divine music lured me under cover of night. Alone in those hallowed halls I dared to sit on the throne and my first passion for music was born in the breath of those pipes. In the depth of the night she and I should have slept, but instead I made music with her. Great music that no one heard for many a month. But it was not to last. When my sin was discovered, my mother and the priest punished me for my disobedience." He bent over the keys. "So many years spent a prisoner in that house. Denied access to her beautiful pipes. They never understood what torture that was." His hand brushed the forehead of his mask.

Christine pressed close to him. "Then take this chance now. Just one concert, in a few weeks. There is time to rehearse. Erik, please. I can see the desire in your eyes."

"I … I am …. afraid."

"Of what?"

He gazed at the notes on the page. "Failure."

Damrosch held out one hand. "I know the weight of the request I have given you. Think on it. Give me an answer when you are ready. Alright?"

Erik shakily glanced up. Damrosch noted Erik left the Hall with the sheet music clutched in his hand.


	23. Chapter 23

_**Chapter 23**_

From the cover of the stage wing, Erik peered out at the illuminated orchestra. It wouldn't be long now. _Ode to Joy_ was next. He gripped the head of his cane in his right hand while his left tugged the cuff of his shirt well over the edge of his glove. When he finished with the right cuff, he switched the cane and repeated the adjustment.

Charles rested a hand on his father's shoulder. "You look fine," he whispered.

Erik glanced at him, swallowing hard. All afternoon he had been making micro-adjustments to his clothing to the point where Charles worried the cuffs would fray.

"Was this the right mask?" Erik whispered back. "I was not sure if it was appropriate. Maybe I should go back to the house and fetch a plainer one."

Charles tightened his grip. "You have always worn the bejeweled nightingale mask when you preformed. If you didn't this time, it would result in more talk, not less. Take a deep breath, Father. You can do this."

"I do not think I can." He trembled.

"Mother is in the soprano section. No one in the audience would be the wiser if you stole a glance her way if you get nervous."

His gaze flicked to the stage. A flood of applause drowned his reply. "I am not nervous."

Charles straightened his father's cravat and smiled knowingly. "You have been the envy of the musicians during the rehearsals. There is no reason to be afraid."

He tugged once more on each cuff, his eyes fixed on the floor.

Damrosch's words cut through the silence. "For this evening's finale we gift you with a grand treat. A reunion, if you will. It has been some time since Carnegie Hall has had the pleasure, for as many know he has been in Eurasia. Ladies and gentlemen, _Ode to Joy_ with organ accompaniment by Maestro Erik."

Charles gently prodded his father through the door. The moment the light hit Erik he put every effort into striding across the stage without a hitch in his step. The tap of his cane filled the awed silence.

As he took his seat on the throne and opened the sheet music, the auditorium was so silent a mouse would have been heard. At his glance her way, Christine offered him a slight smile.

When he was prepared, Erik nodded to Damrosch.

His fingers danced on the keys in time to the strokes of Damrosch's baton. With his eyes following the notes on the pages, Erik had little time to be concerned with the gazes of hundreds of spectators boring into his back. Music flooded his senses. From the chorus swelling on the waves of notes, to the torrent raging from the orchestra, it took everything in him to match the driving rhythm. Every note must be in the perfect place, for the perfect duration.

Before, he could have simply unleashed his hands and feet to play to the feel. Now, he felt a slight delay as his brain processed the instructions on the page. It was aggravating, nerve racking!

In the heat of the lights, beads of sweat poured down behind the mask. But he drove right on, keeping time with Damrosch's directions. Everything was perfectly timed. Even though Erik remained too preoccupied to notice.

The final chord hung in the air, suspended by Damrosch's baton until he let it fall. Erik released the keys and the organ's bellows sighed into silence.

The crowd surged to their feet and applauded. Crossing the stage, Damrosch gestured for Erik to rise and face the audience. He slid from the throne and took up his cane, prepared to bow from the side of the stage. But Damrosch tugged on his arm until they reached the center of the stage.

The applause grew more enthusiastic. Stiffly, Erik bowed. Blinded by the bright lights, he could not see the sea of faces. There wasn't a single jeer to be heard.

Damrosch stepped up beside him and whispered in his ear, "You're staying, right?"

Erik met his gaze and replied, "What?"

"There's a social after. I trust you will stay? You truly have been missed." He gestured to the audience, then turned back to the orchestra and chorus. Even they were on their feet.

Heat rose to Erik's face. He extended a hand to Damrosch, who took it warmly and called out above the cheers, "Welcome back, Maestro."

* * *

For most of the party, Erik had lingered on the edges, Christine or Charles always at his side. Many of the crowd longed to have words with Erik. But he was simply not up to the challenge of fielding many inquiries to his travels. Christine politely navigated the conversations, allowing Erik to appear his stoic self.

Gradually the crowd thinned until the last handful left.

Damrosch found Erik in the upper foyer, seated on the ledge before the stained glass window. Christine and Charles greeted the director with a grateful smile. He held out a glass of wine to Erik. It took a long moment, but he accepted the glass.

"A toast, to your return, my friend."

Idly, Erik swirled the wine.

Damrosch cocked his head. "Is something wrong?"

He lowered the glass, letting it rest between his fingers. "I am not sure how to put this … Damrosch, tonight was … "

They all leaned forward waiting for the word that took too long to come.

" … cathartic." He stared at his gloved fingers. "I find myself already longing to feel the pulse of the organ again. I could never play my violin again."

Damrosch glanced at Christine. She held up a hand for him to leave it lie as Erik continued.

"Besides, you have a first chair violinist. Who am I to ask him to step aside. No. That would not be right at all."

"But there is no reason you could not claim the organ throne, Erik. I could limit the pieces we chose to fit with your endurance."

Erik shook his head. "No, this is too much to ask."

"Nonsense. If you want this, if you need this, it is yours."

"Damrosch, I would not desire to impose … "

"You? Impose? Erik, asking a master musician such as yourself to return to the stage is an honor. One I feared I would never be able to do again. Now, I insist. Raise your glass and drink … to your future."

After a sip, Erik reached out and took Damrosch's hand. "You have no idea what this means to me."

He winked. "I believe I do. And I have another request for you. I have need of excellent music tutors. It would be an honor to have both you and Charles inspiring the pupils."

Erik tugged his cuff and looked away. "I do not think so."

Charles took a step forward and suggested. "What about the piano, Father? I know of a few students on the list, I have heard them. They are quite worthy of your instruction. Take on a couple of them. No more than a few days each week."

"But … "

He knelt down and placed a hand on Erik's knee. "What will you do? Linger in the silent mansion? Or would you rather be here, in the place you stare at for hours on end?"

Erik took a shaky sip of wine. "What if I get overwhelmed?"

Damorsch shrugged. "That's why we will build it a pupil at a time. You let me know when you are comfortable. Erik, please. I want you to come back. I can see you need to. Just give in. We'll do this together."

Christine sat beside him and leaned her head on his shoulder. "It's time, my love. Time for you to inspire once again."

He opened and closed his hand with a sigh. "Thank you … for not letting my fear rule me."


	24. Chapter 24

_**Chapter 24**_

The piano music filled the small room. Seated beside an adolescent boy, Erik listened with closed eyes. Just as he was about to hit the coda, Erik tapped his cane on the floor. The boy drew back from the keys. "Maestro?"

With one finger, Erik gestured to a symbol on the page. "What does this mean?"

He cocked his head. "Pianissimo?"

"And what does this symbol mean?"

"Fortissimo?"

Erik gazed down at the pupil waiting for him to reply. When the silence stretched overlong, he lifted a hand. "Well? Do you know why I stopped you?"

The boy folded his hands in his lap and stared at the page.

"This," Erik's right hand danced lightly across the keys producing a tinkling shower of notes, "is pianissimo. Like a spring rain, yes?"

The boy smiled and nodded.

"This," in a thunder of notes, he pounded on the keys, "is fortissimo. Like a destructive storm."

Startled by the volume, his student nearly fell off the bench.

Withdrawing his hands from the keys, Erik turned to the boy. "Please explain why the two sounded dynamically the same when you played them."

The boy put his hands on the keys and went back to the transition. This time, the intensity increased. When he reached the end of he movement he glanced up at Erik.

"That was better. Those markings are important. Did you feel the difference between the first way you played and the second?"

"Yes, Maestro. I did. I'm sorry I missed the marking when I practiced at home."

He glanced at the pocket watch left open on the piano. Their session was over. "You must be more careful. Always read through the entire piece before you begin. Those symbols are not just artwork on the page. They help to instruct you in how to play. Before our next lesson, I would like you work on the dynamic interplay between the second and fourth movements. They should not sound the same."

The boy stood and bowed before taking the music from the stand. "Thank you, Maestro. I will do so."

Erik pulled the list out from under his pocket watch. His next pupil had canceled, apparently ill. It meant he had an hour and this room at his own disposal. He glanced at the stacks of music in contemplation of what to play. Mozart? Beethoven?

A knock on the door disrupted his thoughts. He turned to discover Charles entering, his flute in one hand and sheet music in the other. Beside the piano he bowed. "I hear that the great Maestro Erik had a cancellation. Might I trouble him for a critique?"

Erik waved a hand at the empty stand and chuckled. "As if you have to ask, Maestro Charles."

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, that's enough of that, Father."

"Am I forbidden from appropriately addressing my accomplished son?"

"No. But it is hardly necessary."

Erik took the offered music and laid it out on the piano's stand. "You started it."

"Never mind. I just want to see what you think of this." Charles gripped his flute as he waited the long minutes for Erik to read through the entire composition.

"Interesting. A nice duet for piano and flute. I see you added time signature change here. That will be tricky on the flute. Will this be a full symphony piece?"

"Eventually." He tapped the keys on his flute. "Maybe. I don't know. This is all I have so far. Do you think it could be?"

Erik's fingers marked the first chord. "Let us hear it and see."

Charles lifted his flute and waited for the piano's short entrance. Both instruments created an unresolved harmony, each part battling to become the main as they tangled and twisted. A third of the way through, the melodies shifted, softening into a tentative balance. The flute's high notes soared over the piano, rising to the climax. At the time signature change, the dynamics rose once again as the lines resolved to a full balance.

In the silence that followed both men dissected the composition on the pages. Charles shook his head. "It's not quite there, something around measure twenty-nine?"

"Here, I think. Closer to thirty-four. Have you thought of this?" Erik experimented with a few combinations. "No. But maybe … hrm … not that either … what about … this?"

Charles stood up straight. "Do that again." He played along this time. The music went from pleasing to sublime. "Yes!"

Before long the two were lost in the forest of notes. Completely lost to time.

Until a knock on the door interrupted them. Charles lowered his flute and looked over his shoulder. He immediately grinned. "Thomas Penfold!"

The boy looked about the same age as Charles. His own face lightened as he walked into the room and shook hands. "Charles Daae! I haven't seen you since Harkness. I didn't know you were a student here."

"I'm not." He wrung his hands around the flute and blushed. "I'm an apprentice and music tutor here."

Thomas looked to Erik, patiently waiting at the piano. "Then, why were you in a lesson?"

"Oh, well, Thomas, this is my father."

His jaw hung slack. "Maestro Erik is your … "

"Father, yes."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

Charles shrugged. "I thought everyone knew. Anyway, I should get back to my duties. I don't want to intrude on your lesson." He fetched the music from the stand and waved as he left the room.

Thomas sat on the bench and grinned at his tutor. "Damn, I should have known! No wonder he was he is so talented. I had no idea he was your son."

"Are we quite finished?" Erik remarked dryly. "Or shall we be spending the entire hour discussing the merit of family trees?"

"Maestro." Thomas put his fingers on the keys. "As you requested, I have memorized the piece."

"Proceed."

* * *

Damrosch sat at his desk. The Hall was busy this afternoon. Students took lessons from their tutors. Staff prepared programs for the next concert. Later today the symphony would hold their dress rehearsal. Erik was already in the Hall. Weeks ago he had taken on half a dozen pupils, hand-selected after auditions. It was refreshing to see how his confidence returned. Even Charles seemed more at ease. And Christine, she had been by his office every other day in secret, thanking him for his clever plan.

His heart sank. He pulled open a drawer and carefully dug out a buried score. In the light the red lettering bled on the cover. He brushed his hand over it.

Erik's setting of the requiem mass.

He trembled as the memories flooded back to him. That day, years ago now, when Erik entrusted the score to him, uncertain of his fate. That same day that Erik had sworn him to secrecy about his failing health.

If Damrosch had told Christine, had told someone, anyone, was there a chance that this could have been avoided?

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on the music. At least there had not been a need to play this. And by the looks of things, would not be any time soon.

As he thumbed through the vellum pages, he felt the weight of the contents. Erik was not a young man. And if half of what he had learned of his past was true, he had lead a daunting life before coming to Manhattan. They may have been spared this time … but that day would come. No matter how much they dismissed the possibility.

"Not today." He shut the leather binding and carefully replaced the requiem on the bottom of the drawer. "Not today or any time soon."

Shutting the drawer he bowed his head and collected himself. He had a dress rehearsal to direct.


	25. Chapter 25

_**Chapter 25**_

Erik lingered in the doorway. The light from the hallway cast his shadow over his old desk. It wasn't his any longer, and had not been for some time. He could scarcely recall the day he had handed the key to the Director of the Arts office over to Damrosch.

Memories hung in the air. Oh how the musical scores used to pile up on the desk until the top was no longer visible. He had tried to refile them, but the task had remained futile in the endless cycle of new programs to arrange.

He sighed, and leaned heavily on the cane as he ran his fingers on the spines of the scores. Each one shelved recently. And dusted too. Well of course it had been. Damrosch had many assistants these days helping to run the place. A regular flurry of activity, compared to Erik's own stilted pace. His fingers tightened on the cane handle. He would have thrown it across the room to be rid of the vexing symbol of his perpetual weakness, save that would have left him to rely on the wall for balance.

It took far too much effort, but he forced his fingers to relax. What sense was there in exercising his anger? Such ridiculous displays did little more than exhaust his fragile stamina.

These last weeks spending time at Carnegie Hall had been a wonderful stolen time for him. For all intents and purposes it appeared to everyone that he had simply returned from Europe and resumed an interest in fostering music. He had met with Grimaudo and seamlessly handed over the physical running of Shadowcrest Industries, as though it had been his plan all along. That wasn't far from the truth, only on a different timeline then intended. Grimaudo had solid instincts honed over the years. And working with him, some of the finest architects in Manhattan. Somehow, Erik had managed to conceal his anguish until his once apprentice had left the mansion. That was nights ago now.

Life had stayed the same to the public. Yet to Erik, everything had changed. It was beyond exhausting trying to maintain the look of ease. That was why he had wandered up here to this old office at a time where he knew this hallway would be empty. To remember … to bask in the memories when he had not been an invalid.

Hurried footsteps outside the door caught his attention. No one should have been up here this time of day. Only the students and their tutors were here now, and the handful of them should be in the practice rooms.

Erik slid behind the door, just a shadow in the dark room.

A moment later a young couple bustled into the room. The girl's dress rustled as she spun into the dark. Breathless, they both gazed out into the hall just on the edge of Erik's line of sight through the windowpane of the door.

Charles? Yes. It was Charles and Simonetta. Both flush as they stared out back down the hall. Charles broke the silence in a whisper, "I think we lost her, but not for long. What is it? What's upset you?"

She swallowed hard and gripped Charles's arms. "If we're caught this will end everything. Not that it matters. My father already has. Charles, I have terrible news."

"Calm down. Whatever it is, we will find some way … "

"My father is planning my debut."

Charles stiffened, every breath a harsh gasp. "No. No. This can't be. Not yet. Not yet! Simonetta, I won't be considered … oh God, this is terrible!"

She gripped him tighter. "I don't want that silly ritual. I don't want to dance with others. I don't want anyone else, Charles. I had hoped to delay this as long as possible. Until you would be considered a proper suitor. But my father won't be swayed. All I could do is reject all the suitors. But I can only do this for so long. Not the years it will take for you to be considered worthy by them."

Behind the door, Erik's heart pounded in his chest loud enough he swore they must hear it. His poor son. Only just starting in the world. True, he was a remarkable musician with prospects. But that wasn't enough. It would be years until his inheritance. Though Erik had only glimpsed the books, he knew that with the recent strain on the household from his illness, there was not enough available for Charles. Even if he had wanted to gift his son with an early inheritance, it simply couldn't be done.

Color drained from Charles's face. He pitched back as though he would fall. "I never imagined that this would happen. I should have … but … what are we going to do?"

She rested her head on his shoulder, safe in his arms. "Everything we can to prevent my hand being pledged to someone else. I would rather die than marry another."

"Simonetta."

"I mean it, Charles. I've loved you since the first time you helped me to my feet when I fell. I still remember how my brother teased you over for the color you turned. Despite his ridicule, you continued to steal glances at me every chance you had. No other boy has gone to such lengths or risked the wrath of my father as much as you. No one else understands my love of music as you."

"I don't know how. But I promise you, we will find a way to prevent this. Somehow, fate will intervene and we will be together."

Erik's mind worked feverishly. There had to be some way to circumvent this ridiculous dance ritual. But navigating ingrained social ideals could be maddening. Erik had learned the price of ignoring those in the wake of Christine's mourning for Raoul. Granted, she had hardly been bereft of his loss. In truth it was a celebration. But one she could not have show to the world. While remaining in Erik's mansion as a grieving widow, she'd had to maintain the facade of mourning. Despite their efforts to quell them, rumors still sprung up from the masses. Though few bothered to remember after all the years.

The office was silent now as Erik discovered himself alone. Carefully, he exited the room. His duties were complete for the day leaving him free to return home. In the two short blocks to his front door, a plan began to form. Though Charles could do little in this circumstance, that did not mean all was lost.

In his study Erik swiftly penned a letter and sealed it with his signet ring. His tapped a cadence while he waited for the servant to answer the summoning bell. How would he wait for the answer?

* * *

Less than a week later, Erik examined every setting at the dining table. He lifted every piece of silverware inspecting the fine grooves for any sign of tarnish. Each crystal goblet he picked up and peered at in the gaslights.

"Monsieur Erik," the butler, Wensleydale, stood in the doorway. "I assure you, everything has been polished to a mirrored shine, per your request. The household is quite prepared to receive your honored guests."

"It better be." He placed the final glass down at the head of the table. "Nothing is to be out of place this evening. This dinner is beyond critical."

The butler was about to reply when Erik's gloved fingers grasped and retied the servant's bow tie.

"Nothing will be out of place. Am I understood?"

"Monsieur." He nodded. "I shall wait for your guests at the door. It is near time for their arrival."

Christine entered with Charles. She the calm anchor to the troubled son. Poor Charles could not keep his fingers from fidgeting with his vest, his shirt, his cravat. Erik had resigned himself to the occasional tug on his own shirt cuffs. For now, his gloves well concealed the scars on his wrists. But soon, at dinner, there was the risk of a cuff slipping. He had taken pains to tack the cuffs as tight as possible to prevent such a mishap. This was far too important.

Charles pulled his vest down. "What if they don't come?"

"They will." Erik replied with a calmness he didn't feel. "A gentleman's reputation is built on his display of honor. Chantelli comprehends that."

Christine gently straightened Charles's cravat. "Everything will be alright. Just mind your manners and let your father handle this. You'll see."

Charles looked up at his father, wringing his hands. "Are you certain?"

Erik forced a smile. Everything hinged on him. He wasn't sure he was ready for this fine of an affair. He would have to be.

"Of course he's certain," Christine answered. "If anyone can secure your future, he can."

"Mother, I don't think I can sit at the same table as Simonetta and not steal her away."

She laughed into a gloved hand and glanced at Erik. "Like father-like son."

Erik bowed his head and muttered, "Please leave the dinning room chandelier in place, Son. I confess in hind sight that little stunt was a severely unwise tactic to win a woman's affections."

Charles glanced up at the polished crystals hanging from the ornate fixture. "I imagine that had made quite a mess."

The reply was interrupted by the ring of the pull bell. The family made a few last minute adjustments. Erik offered his arm to Christine and a stiff nod of his head to Charles. "It begins."

* * *

The evening proceeded wonderfully. Halfway through the courses, with their guests at ease, Erik could scarcely believe his luck. Signor Severo and Singora Ambra Chantelli leisurely chatted. Their twin children, Dario and Simonetta sat across the table from Charles. It did not escape Erik's attention that his son stole glances whenever the governess wasn't watching. The poor boy was blushing in competition with the apples. Nothing in the conversation was a fault for this. But Erik's heart knew the cause. His son was pining for the answer to the one question that could not be asked in public.

How Erik longed to simply broach the subject. A subject far too heavy for dinner. A servant cleared the table in preparation for desert. Soon enough.

Ambra wiped her mouth daintily with a napkin. "Our apologies if we are a touch out of sorts. We're still reeling from a terribly long carriage ride the other day. Entirely unplanned, you see."

Christine folded her hands on her lap, a vision in the lamplight. "I trust it was for something good?"

"I daresay it was." Ambra sat up straighter in her chair. "A chapter in our lives fully dealt with. My uncle, the daft lunatic, should have been locked up ages ago. It was about time the family agreed to commit him to the asylum. What a relief to have the threat to the family reputation safely put away."

In the silence that followed, the only sound was Erik's rasped breathing.

Severo eyed his wife. Christine reached for Erik's hand only to miss it by a fraction. He pushed up from the table and fled the room in a shambling gait without his cane.

Charles rose in a panic as Simonetta clutched the ruffled collar of her dress.

"If you would excuse me for a moment." Christine left the table and grasped Erik's forgotten cane. "Since Europe, there have been moments where he has required fresh air, sometimes rather urgently."

Without a backward glance she followed the echo of Erik's footsteps. He hadn't gone far. She found him clinging to the open door of the ballroom, gasping in the frosty evening air. Gently, she placed the cane in his hand. His grip tightened as the cane took his weight.

"This can not be happening. Do not make me go back in there."

"Shh." She rested her hand on his. The breeze stole his breath in puffs. "You have nothing to fear. No one suspects anything, my love."

"You heard her." His voice rose an octave even as he fought to keep the volume down. "If anyone were to learn—"

"There is no reason for them to. I can assure you right now, Signor Chantelli is likely admonishing her for such a rude remark. Erik please, calm yourself. The evening is going well. Just a short while longer, then you can broach the subject in your parlor." She leaned in close and tucked herself beneath his chin. "We'll get through this together. I'll go back inside and cover for you. You just needed some air. Nothing more. Don't be too long."

Erik delayed her departure, holding her tight in his embrace.

"My love." She squeezed his hand. "Everything will be fine. I have every confidence in you."

She slid out of his grasp and vanished through the door.

* * *

"It was indeed a pleasure, Monsieur Erik. A good evening to you." Signor Chantelli offered a formal bow surrounded by his family. Behind him, Simonetta stole a desperate glance at Charles before her father shepherded her off to their waiting carriage.

By the time Erik had finished the required bow and closed the door he turned to find both Charles and Christine pressing into him.

"Well? What did he say? What did he say? Are we betrothed?"

He tucked his chin. "For one thing, my son, we need to work on your manners. That is not how a gentleman approaches such a subject."

Charles fixed his eyes on the floor and muttered. "Sorry, Father."

"You are not betrothed."

His shoulders fell. "I knew it was useless. Poor Simonetta."

"Chantelli has canceled her dance, provided that you remain a proper potential suitor."

He stiffened and met his father's gaze. "You mean … "

"We have reached a verbal agreement, Charles. But it all hinges on you two being patient. No more hidden rendezvous in the back offices."

"What? What are you talking about?"

Erik tapped his cane. "The Director of the Art's office?"

"Oh." He cringed.

"You are to see her in passing as a gentleman. If Chantelli catches you sneaking about and endangering his daughter's reputation, then there are no words I can say that will salvage your chances. I am trusting you."

Charles bowed his head. "I will try. I promise." He turned and bounded up the stairs toward the alcove window to see her carriage off.

Christine slid into Erik's waiting arms. "I knew you could persuade him. What did you say?"

He chuckled. "Turns out that Chantelli is a romantic."


	26. Chapter 26

_**Chapter 26**_

The applause from the audience still rung in Charles's ears, even though nearly a full hour had passed since the holiday concert had completed. In the heat of the packed room, he fought to keep the blush of his cheeks from showing. Everywhere he turned, another hand extended to congratulate him on a spellbinding performance. In the jostling crowd, he struggled to keep at Erik's side.

Somehow, his father was doing a remarkable job of concealing his fatigue. Damrosch had requested several pieces with Erik on the organ's throne. One special one in particular. A duet between father and son. Charles's work had directly followed the intermission to an uproarious applause. By now his arm was aching from all the handshaking.

Erik leaned on the cane and reached back for Charles's shoulder in mid conversation. "That work you heard was entirely his own."

Charles bowed his head. "Not without consulting a true maestro."

"You are closer to having earned that title than you know." He nodded his head and lifted the glass of champagne in a toast. He placed the empty glass on a waiter's platter.

The gentleman he had speaking with reached out and clasped his hand warmly. "Maestro Erik, it has been a sublime pleasure. Enjoy your evening."

Charles waited long enough for the man to depart before adjusting his cravat. It suddenly felt too tight. "I'm not certain I will ever get used to this."

Erik chuckled softly. "If a man as inherently shy as myself can, you are more than capable."

"Shy? You?"

He nodded. "Or have you forgotten that it was you who, many a year ago, gave me the courage to walk onto the stage." He brushed his fingers on the signature nightingale-patterned mask he wore specifically for concerts ever since young Charles had made him the first one.

Charles was about to reply when a man close to his age stepped between them and clasped Erik's gloved hand without preamble.

Erik started for a moment, the normally warm gesture stiff with surprise.

"Maestro Erik. My my, what a privilege this is to meet a man of your esteem." He stared directly into the eyes of Erik's mask. "Oh, you don't know me. My name is Michael Perth and I have been simply spellbound by your playing from the first I heard about your remarkable talents."

Erik allowed the incessant hand shaking to continue until Michael fell silent. Then he pried the man's grip from his hand and resumed that cold, detached air he reserved for the outside world. "Thank you, Mr. Perth. But I was not the only musician on the stage this evening. It would be rude of me to take credit."

"Nonsense." Michael moved a step closer.

A strange gleam in the man's eyes, perhaps a trick of the light, caused Charles to hover near Erik's shoulder. He moved just off to the side of the space between them and silently stared at the impertinent man.

"Maestro, you are an absolute architect in this hall." Michael stooped, close to kneeling before him. "You are a true master in this realm. If I but learned an instrument, I would do anything to become your student. Anything to be beside you."

Erik's fingers tightened on the cane.

A chill went up Charles's spine, something wasn't right. He pressed between them. "Maestro Erik has a full list of pupils."

"Oh." Michael only glanced at Charles before locking his gaze back on Erik. "Oh yes, of course he would. I was just wanting to express my gratitude for how much he has effected my life."

"It's been a long day with the concerts. Now, if you will excuse us, we must be going home." Charles held his breath until he heard the first tap of Erik's cane moving off behind him. A fair distance into the crowd he looked back and found the young man still watching.

"What an odd individual."

Erik glanced sideways and smirked, "You'll meet many just like him, my son. The world is full of them."

* * *

Snow drifted outside the window of Erik's study. He watched the delicate dance as he played a merry tune on his Stradivarius, ushering in the first afternoon of the new year.

Nadir glanced up from his seat before the hearth. "I must say, it is good to hear you playing again. The holiday concerts last week were marvelous."

Erik didn't even miss a stroke. "Charles has become quite the conversation piece at the hall."

"Well, yes." Nadir shifted his still healing leg. "But so is your contribution on the organ."

The response was a noncommittal noise. Erik was far too engrossed in playing his violin.

"As good as it is to hear the organ, I suspect that the audience would love to hear your Stradivarius again."

"That's never going to happen, Nadir." He finished the piece and reverently laid the instrument back in her case. With a rough tug he pulled the cuffs of his jacket over the scars on his wrist. "You know the reason why."

Nadir leaned back with a sign. "It is a shame."

"A shame I intend to keep quite private, thank you very much." He stirred the fire in the hearth with a poker and replaced the gate. "Miracle enough that the public believes that I spent all that time in Europe. There is little cause to jeopardize that now."

"Speaking of secrets." Nadir took a sip of his whiskey and offered him a grin. "How is Charles doing down at the hall so far as being the perfect gentleman? Anymore … sneaking around?"

Erik chuckled softly. "I caught him trying to sneak a few moments with Simonetta before the holiday concerts. The clever boy. The moment the door opened they both stiffened and feigned a music lesson. I believe he thought I was her governess."

"This must be torture for him. To be see her everyday and yet to have to be patient. The worst thing in the world."

"Like having your one desire on the other side of a mirror." Erik replied distantly.

Nadir blanched. "I … I'm sorry. I didn't mean … "

He sighed. "That's why I find it so difficult to intervene. I know intimately what he's going through. Fortunately, a few more years and I should have restored my estate without anyone being the wiser. Then, with his inheritance, he can approach Chantelli."

The fire's crackle filled the silence. Both men watched the flames idly, until they nodded off in the warmth.

The front door slamming rousted Erik. He lifted his head to the rushed footsteps up the stairs. A moment later Charles stormed into the study, snowflakes clinging to his jacket. He clasped a newspaper in his hand, eyes wild as he towered over Erik.

"Be patient, you said!" His nostrils flared with each breath. "Just be a gentleman and I'll get to spend the rest of my life with her. Well, no thanks to _you,_ her father just said I will never see her again!"

Erik tried to stand, but Charles thrust the paper against his chest, forcing him roughly back into the couch.

"Why did I have to be _your_ son?" He fled the room. A moment later his own bedroom door slammed.

Perplexed, Erik reached down and unfolded the paper.

Nadir blinked. "What was that all about?"

"I have no id … ea." Erik froze, his gaze locked on a page. His fingers crumpled the edges as his hands shook. "That son of a—!"

Unable to see what he was fixated with, Nadir cocked his head. "What is the matter?"

"I swear no corner of this earth will hide that man from my wrath! Oath or not, I will make him pay!"

"Erik, what are you talking about?"

He wrenched himself from the couch and seized his cane. The paper lay discarded on the floor, a large column ran nearly the full length of the second page. The title, 'The Curious Monstrosity of Manhattan'. How many had seen this? Erik fumed as he made his way out the door on a path to Carnegie Hall. That damn doctor hadn't written his name, but he may as well have. The physical description alone identified him.

Damage control. He had to get this under control before it impacted Carnegie Hall. Then he had to go chat with Chantelli and smooth things over. After all, not everything in the newspaper was true. Surely Chantelli knew that.

The fool! That stupid foolish doctor had blabbed about what he called the procedure of the century. Written at length about how insane the patient had been. How Erik had been reduced to a crazed lunatic chained in his own cellar. The level of detail was staggering—including what lie beneath his mask.

Erik pushed the door of Carnegie Hall open to a small crowd. Patrons who had just a few nights before lauded him for the holiday music. Now they averted their gazes and swiftly deserted the corridor.

Whispers followed him up the stairs as he searched for Damrosch. A couple left his office, their cheeks flushed red with anger. The moment they spotted Erik they glared at him. The man held out his cane to ward him off. "You never get near my son again! Lunatics like you should be locked up and the key thrown away!"

Damrosch rushed to the door, "Mr. and Mrs. Penfold, please … let's not be hasty!"

Penfold shot him a vile look before taking his wife's arm and departing without another word.

"Come inside." Damrosch's shoulders fell. "We have to talk." The man looked as though someone had exorcised him.

Erik shut the door but refused to take a seat even as Damrosch collapsed into his own.

"All morning. Every time I think I saw the last of it, another walks in and screams at me." Damrosch's hand fell on a pile of morning papers. All the same edition, all open to the same damning article.

"That article was entirely uncalled for. I will find him and—"

"And what, Erik?" He looked up wearily. "What can be done? The secret we have fought so bitterly to keep is printed in black and white. It took no less than an hour for the public to make the connection with you. Already every one of your pupils has been barred from interacting. And I fear that if you take the stage … " his voice faded.

Erik's fury abandoned him. He swayed before crumpling into the chair. If he had been forced to stand before the whole of Manhattan and pry off his mask, he swore the blow would be no less brutal.

They knew.

The public knew. Every literate person who could afford to purchase a paper knew his hideous secret. He grasped his cane and fought to steady his breathing. And failed.

The panic continued to well.

Damrosch stood before him, hands on his shoulders. "Erik. Listen to me. Erik, please."

He blinked and met the gaze.

"I'll walk you home. Right now, until I can get this sorted out, you need to stay away from here. I'm sorry. But you know how rumors are."

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the cane. "Oh, I am intricately familiar with the poison of rumor. That doctor has no idea what he has done. How much he has destroyed in his crowing. The wretch has ruined me!"

"Calm down. We can fix this."

"Fix this?" Erik surged up from the chair. "Fix this? Damrosch, there is no possible way to barricade public curiosity and ridicule now. Just lock me up!" he snarled as he tore open the door. "Do not bother walking me home, I would not want you tarnishing your reputation by association with a monstrosity."

* * *

Erik longed to scream out his rage as he stalked the length of his study. The sun had set hours ago. The world was at peace, regardless of his restless fury.

"I have to find that man! Where did Christine say he was from? Boston? Perhaps I'll take my mallet and chisel to his skull!"

He growled and rounded on the hearth. There, neatly displayed in the twin holders, lay his dress sword. A finely crafted sabre … years since she tasted blood. He reached up and grasped her hilt. She settled into his left hand, made for his grip.

"The blade." He let his eyes rove over her fierce phoenix pommel all the way to the tip of her polished steel. "A fitting end for a surgeon."

Slowly he drew her down and held her out before him. The blade a horizontal threat to the thin air. Vengeance would be …

His breath caught in his throat. The tip of the sabre danced in an erratic path. He narrowed his eyes fighting to still it. His arm was a solid piece of steel fused to the sword, became his mantra.

A mantra that failed.

The tremor continued to build until his arm fell at his side. His eyes clenched tight as he suppressed the urge to cry out.

It was gone. In a flash, every chance to avenge that wretch's arrogance had been shamefully stripped away by the tremble of his hand.

He staggered the few steps to the couch and slumped down. It was a loss. A duel would be a failure and surely end in his death, even if the doctor was a coward.

Erik yanked the cravat from his neck, so hard the tack ricocheted across the floor. For now, he would have to rely on karma for the doctor. That fight could not possibly be carried out. Besides, he had more important issues to remedy at the moment.

His gaze drifted to Charles's closed door.

Issues that no blade could possibly resolve. He set the sword aside and stared into the flames.

* * *

"You should talk to him." Nadir leaned heavily on his crutch, sheltered by the study door frame.

"Christine has been handling that." Erik thumbed through a stack of papers on his desk. Finding the one he was looking for, he grasped his cane and began to pace the floor. "Besides, he flatly refuses to speak to me."

"Do you know how long it has been?"

He growled and stalked back to the desk. Shoving aside the stack of papers, he picked up the newest newspaper and snapped, "Over a month."

Cautiously, Nadir limped into the room. "You've become a recluse again."

"Not now."

"You haven't even gone downstairs since—"

"Not now!"

"Erik, hiding isn't helping anything. You need to—"

"Daroga!" He slammed his hands on the desk. "You need to comprehend that it is much worse than a foiled engagement! Before the doctor's case file being published, finances were already approaching the breaking the point. Since then, every brick in my carefully laid empire has been chiseled out of place by the bias of those who once held me as an esteemed colleague. The public is calling for me to be locked in an asylum."

"Now you're just being paranoid."

Erik snatched a few of letters from the desk and threw them at Nadir. He caught two, the rest fluttered to the floor. His eyes widened. His mouth opened and shut, speechless.

"Paranoid? Really? This entire situation was difficult enough without the mob insisting that I am threat to society." He slumped into the chair and ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. "I am once more a prisoner in my own home! This is a disaster!"

Setting the rude letters on the desk, Nadir heaved a sigh. "You'll think of something. It's a good thing that the weather has been brutal enough to keep most of the elite inside their homes. Perhaps this whole affair will dwindle by spring."

Erik shook his head and tugged the untied cravat from his neck. He flung it onto the floor without a glance. "And perhaps by then I will be shackled in a cell."

"Christine would never allow that." Nadir sat on the edge of the desk. "Let the winter take the sting out of the rumors. Somehow we will repair your reputation."

He pushed up from the desk and seized his cane. With a scowl, he made for the staircase.

"Erik, where are you going?"

"To the cellar." He paused long enough to glare back at his hobbled friend. "Before I commit some act I might regret."


	27. Chapter 27

_**Chapter 27**_

Charles stomped up the stairs, fair warning to Erik that he'd returned home and was heading for his room. The effort was a waste. On the landing, he glanced into the study to find a rare sight in the early afternoon. The room was empty.

It was over a month since the icy silence had become a barrier between them. Over a month since he had set foot inside his father's sacred refuge.

Well, he wasn't here. Charles scowled as he trespassed into the room toward the stack of papers burying the desk. What a mess, entirely unorganized.

"Look at this, finances, business papers, ledgers. He's not even doing a damn thing about repairing things with the Chantelli's. Not a damn—"

An enveloped with Erik's broken wax seal slipped to the floor, its edge crumpled. In Erik's fine hand it had been addressed to Signor Chantelli. Carefully, he pulled the letter out and unfolded it.

… _you have my assurance that my mental well-being should have no impact on the prospects of Charles Daae. The truth is that even though years ago I claimed to be his father, the truth is he was sired by Raoul the Vicomte de Chagny. I implore you to consider him a worthy match for your daughter …_

Charles swallowed. This letter had been sent, opened … and returned. This letter with its blatant lie. He knew the truth, knew of Erik's bitter rivalry with Chagny. Raoul, the fool who had not even realized that Charles could not possibly have been his own progeny. What it would have taken for Erik to write this. The hesitation in the usually fluid script betrayed the emotion.

No. This wasn't right. Even through his fury, he could not let Erik live this lie.

"Charles?"

He turned to find his mother walking in from the staircase. He swiftly tried to hide the letter, but her eyes followed his hands. She somberly took it from him.

"I saw it." She placed a hand on his chest. "The determination in your eyes. Don't, Charles. You have no idea how much it killed him to even write that."

He pushed her hand away. "But it's all lies! I am his son!"

"I know you are. But he will do anything he can, even lie, if it will repair the damage done."

"I don't want to be Raoul's son. I don't care if he was titled." He unbuttoned his shirt and revealed the scar. "I remember that wretch! If it wasn't for him chasing the bottle this never would have happened. Father needs to take this back."

She bowed her head and replaced the letter in the envelope. Carefully, she tucked it back into the papers on the desk. "He doesn't have to, Charles. They rejected him."

"You mean they sent it back?"

"He delivered it in person." She absently tugged on the lace of her dress. "They left him standing outside the door awaiting a reply for over an hour before the butler handed the opened letter back to him with a smart dismissal. Charles, please just leave this be. Trust me."

He heaved a sigh and glanced to where the letter had vanished into the stack of papers. A knot in his throat burned as he swallowed. Without a word, he walked past her and shut his bedroom door.

* * *

The sun filtered through the budding trees. Spring had released the land from winter's isolating grip. The season had been brutal indeed. Dogged by the hideous vitriol, Erik had been forced to remain hidden in the upper reaches of his home, well out of reach from society's prying eyes. Charles returned home many a night bristling from the verbal onslaught, or nursing a fresh bruise. Even Christine struggled to keep her head held high. Rumors churned all winter long about her odd mourning of Raoul's death. Her morals were called into question more often than not. In the shroud of the vicious mongering, Carnegie Hall struggled on.

On this beautiful afternoon, Christine had insisted enough was enough. In the face of all the turmoil, her family would have a nice horseback ride along Central Park. Charles let his horse plod along, he still refused to even glance at his father. Nadir sat awkwardly on his Morgan gelding. By now his leg had mostly healed, but it was still sore. Christine kept her chin up with a broad smile on her face as she leisurely rode. On her right side, Erik sat on his Arabian stallion, Faust, his fingers kneaded the leather reins as his eyes searched every passerby suspiciously.

Gazes followed the family. Whispers formed a constant wake. Nothing escaped Erik's attention. Their passage disrupted polite strolls. Expressions darkened to jeers.

"Ignore them." Christine whispered to Erik. "We have every right to be out here." She was simply pleased to see that he had enough balance to sit astride his horse. He'd been doing well of late, aside from his temper. But, that was to be expected after the winter's exile.

A cool breeze caught the light crimson scarf he wore and tossed the edge til it caught on his mask. He reached up and freed it with a tense sigh. Beneath him Faust fed off the nervous energy of his master. His hooves danced on the cobblestones. Erik tugged on the rein until Faust's chin touched his neck.

"We're just on a pleasant ride." She smiled confidently.

"Tramp." It was one whisper amid dozens of others.

She stiffened and fought hard not to glance in the direction of the remark. "Just a pleasant ride." Her teeth clenched on the words.

Other words drifted as they rode by. _Freak. Lunatic. Harlot. Scandal. Monster. Asylum._

Each one struck its target.

Charles pulled rein first. "Enough of this foolish display. Let's go home."

Christine halted her horse and firmly replied, "Are we to remain in our home forever? Is that what you wish?"

"I wish to marry the woman I love." He glared at Erik. "But that is now quite impossible."

Erik tried to return Charles's glare, but Faust danced in a circle facing away from his target. In the midst of sorting out the wayward stallion, Erik glanced up in time to see a carriage bolting up the boulevard without a driver. In fact, the poor driver stumbled in the dust behind it.

Faust's ears flicked up. He shifted his weight back onto his rear legs. Erik watched for a tense moment as witnesses lunged away from the path of the carriage. No one even attempted to intervene. He snapped the rein and gave it Faust. In an instant his stallion threw his weight forward and charged up the cobble-stoned corridor.

"Erik! Stop!" Christine's cries dwindled in the rush of wind.

The streets became a blur as Erik let Faust's unbroken stride close the distance. Panicked shadows played in the curtained windows. Screams rent the air. Somehow he had to stop the spooked horse. Time was a factor. Up ahead there was a steep culvert.

"Come on, Faust! Take that nag!" He lay on the stallion's neck counting the strides as the distance closed. One more street! They inched along the side of the carriage toward the horse.

The moment the horse's nose was beside Erik's knee he yanked hard on Faust's reins. The stallion bucked to the side in front of the horse. The horse reared out of the way. The carriage rocked hard to the left nearly tipping before it slammed back down just shy of the culvert's edge.

Faust flared his nostrils as Erik slid down his side and dashed to the carriage door. He flung it open and immediately reached for the hand of the startled woman inside. "Are you all right?"

She clung to her husband. "He's hurt! Oh God, someone help him!"

Gently Erik eased her and another young man out of the carriage. Then he cradled the older man in his arms and pulled him out onto the ground. Blood drenched his hair. A large goose-egg had split the skin.

Erik snatched the scarf from his neck and bound the top of his head.

Horse hooves clattered to a stop. Christine and Charles dropped off their horses, Nadir remained atop his own, alarmed.

"Erik! Dear God, what were you thinking?" Christine rushed toward him "You could have been killed!"

"They could have been killed." He nodded to the culvert. "See to the other two." He pried open the man's eye and watched for a response.

Undeterred, Christine grasped his shoulder. "You could have been thrown!"

"No horse aside from Faust stood a chance of running the carriage down. It was a calculated risk. Now, please do as I ask."

"Erik."

He snapped his fingers and pointed at the stunned woman. Then he returned to gently trying to wake the man.

The young man watched terrified as his father lay there. He didn't even see Charles approach him. "Thomas. Are you alright?"

He startled before daring to glance at his old schoolmate. "My father … he hit his head when the carriage surged forward. Charles! I thought we were going to die!"

"You're all right now."

At that moment Thomas's mother clutched him to her and began to sob. Christine wrapped her arms around them both. "Are you alright Mrs. … ?"

"Penfold." She choked out.

By now, Mr. Penfold's eyes were open, but the poor man lay quite still. Erik glanced around, then up at the carriage with a frown.

Christine released the woman and smiled reassuringly. "My Erik dear will sort this out. You just breath easy now." She watched as Erik examined the axles.

He lifted Mr. Penfold onto the backseat sitting him upright and reached out for Mrs. Penfold's hand. "No other course. We must get him back to your home in the carriage. Charles, you know where their residence is?" He nodded. "Good. I need you to go fetch a doctor to their place. You know … "

"Doctor Holly."

"Yes. He's the closest. Meet us at the Penfold's."

"But." Mrs. Penfold started. "There is no driver."

Erik swung up into the driver's seat and took the reins. "Christine, would you be so kind as to tend them. Nadir, bring her horse. Faust will follow."

Wordlessly, Christine helped the stunned Mrs. Penfold back into the carriage, with Thomas following after. The moment the door shut, Erik eased the horse around, speaking softly to keep her calm.

The odd procession moved down the street at a good clip until they turned into the driveway of the Penfold Mansion. Without hesitation, Erik carried the injured Penfold past the frantic servants into his bedroom and laid him on the bed just in time for the doctor's arrival.

Erik quietly slid out the front door to wait beside Faust and the rest of his mounts. A few moments later Christine and Charles joined him.

"A concussion." He remarked in a whisper. "I don't think it was serious. He should recover with rest. Come. It is getting late."

"Wait … " The clatter of steps caught their attention. Erik turned to find Mrs. Penfold stumbling down the steps.

He bowed his head.

"Why?" She panted. "You didn't have to save him. I saw in your eyes the moment you recognized us. Why did you save him?"

Erik kept his gaze on the ground. "Because any true gentleman would do such a thing."

She tugged on his coat sleeve. "But no one else tried to stop the carriage."

He met her gaze and smiled. "My point precisely. I bid you good evening, Mrs. Penfold."

Erik took Faust's reins and strode off.

Charles hung his head and hid behind the flank of his horse.


	28. Chapter 28

_**Chapter 28**_

Charles dropped his spoon into the half empty bowl and pushed up from the table. His footsteps echoed in the dining room as he crossed to the window.

From the table, Christine glanced up from her own neglected breakfast. The weeks since the carriage incident weighed heavily in the bags beneath her eyes. Beside her, Erik's chair was once more vacant. He hadn't been in bed that morning either. She suspected he was in his laboratory brewing some concoction to take the edge off his rattled nerves.

A sigh stole her attention. She got up and discarded the linen napkin on the table before crossing to touch her son's shoulder.

"Mother, when will this end?"

"I suspect that is an answer your father would like to know as well."

He tensed.

"Talk to him."

Charles turned away. "I can't … I can't even begin to apologize for what I said to him. It just seemed like … like he didn't care."

"He'll understands more deeply than you know."

"But he's not even listening." Charles shrugged her hand off his shoulder. "It's like he is in his own world."

She turned him to face her. "You father is fighting a very difficult battle right now. One that previously took him many years to gain ground. He's trying not to show it, but he's terrified."

He scoffed. "Terrified? He's not afraid of anything."

"Trust me. It takes me hours to get him to even speak right now. When he does, I can hear the tremble he is trying to suppress. Charles, he has come so far just on these shores. So far from the Bowery tenement."

Charles took a step back. "He lived in the Bowery? When?"

"When he first immigrated. There were few places a man without a reputation could find a roof. It took him years to get out of there. Years of fighting for a shred of dignity." She caressed the stonework. "If society takes this place from him, he is petrified of where we might end up. Many men, not hindered by appearance, have been ruined and imprisoned by the gutters. He has to salvage his reputation against the unfortunate rumors that broke loose because of that doctor's publication."

"The very doctor that saved his life, destroyed it."

She nodded. "You have no idea how many nights I spent convincing your father not to hunt him down. I have to trust that he listened when I insisted it would prove to be a folly. Charles, until Erik can save face before society, there is little he can do to salvage your relationship with Simonetta. That alone is gnawing away at his conscious. There is nothing he wants more."

He ran a hand through his hair. "He's not showing it."

She laid her hands on his cheeks. "You just can't see it. Be patient."

The door-bell clang stole his reply. In their shared silence, they heard the butler's muted reply at the door followed by his footsteps up the stairs. Not five minutes had passed before Erik's hurried footsteps pounded the stairs before the butler's. Charles and Christine shifted to the foyer just as Erik, hastily presentable with a half tucked cravat, opened the door.

Mr. and Mrs. Penfold waited outside with Thomas beside them. The street bustled with passersbys. In Mr. Penfold's hands, Erik's neatly folded scarf waited. "Monsieur … " he began and dropped his gaze. "I expect you to turn me away. But … it would be incredibly rude of me not to return your property."

Erik stood stiff, with his hand on the door latch. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. At last, Erik reached out and took the offered scarf. A wistfulness overcame him. "Thank you. You have no idea what this means to me." His fingers brushed against a slightly different shade of red yarn that invaded the garment.

"My wife mended it for you. The least we could do." Hat in one hand, he ran his other hand through his hair. "I don't recall what happened. But my wife and son have told me what you did. I … I cannot repay you enough for your swift action."

Erik cleared a knot from his throat and hung the scarf on a hook beside his cloak. The scarf. Such a simple piece of clothing to bear so many memories. It had been with him on the crossing of the Atlantic, one of the few pieces of clothing to still be with him now. How it had kept him warm in the Bowery. How it had been there for him when he had played his Stradivarius on the street corner beside the blind violinist, Blanjini. The weight of years. He caressed the woolen folds one last time before turning back to family outside his door.

Penfold bowed his head. "I thank you. And now we shall we take our leave."

"Leave?" Erik stepped back and gestured inside his door. "Without taking my hospitality? I should say not. Please come inside. I insist."

Penfold's jaw hung open briefly. But he reached back and took his wife's arm to step inside.

More than a few on the street had stopped to stare as the front door shut.

Christine fought to keep her breathing steady as she took Mrs. Penfold's arm. "Why don't you and Thomas come with Charles and I on a tour of our home." She glanced over her shoulder as Erik and Penfold silently proceeded to the parlor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik spied her tense smile. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. They arrived in the parlor just as the butler brought in a tray with a brandy filled decanter. He wordlessly poured out two crystal glasses and left with a bow.

Erik gestured toward the glasses. Penfold took one glass in a shaking hand as Erik lifted the second. The man kept glancing away from the mask. "I truly must apologize … for the way that I … Monsieur, I must know, my wife says you drove our carriage back to our house. How … "

Erik held up a hand. "There was no time to fetch your driver, or wait for another. I simply did what was essential."

"Yes but, what gentleman knows how to handle driving a carriage?"

"A man who has done so in the past. I am … was a stone mason and frequently handled the reins of the draft horses bringing in the stones." His fingers toyed with the signet ring on his right hand. "The Music Hall was one of my projects."

Penfold leaned forward and stared at the ring. "You … you carved stone?"

He nodded. "A good deal of it. Including this mansion. You see, there is a lot that society has elected to overlook concerning me in recent time. All thanks to an unfortunate publication."

He took a sip of the brandy, staring at his hands. "Unfortunate indeed. Though the street was choked with my associates that day, none came to my aid. None save the man I publicly scorned. Monsieur Erik, I have wronged you and I dare say it is up to me to make things right." He reached into his coat and began to pull out his bank book.

Erik stilled the gesture with a shake of his head. "There is something I have greater need of."

The color drained from Penfold's face.

Glancing away, Erik toyed with the signet ring again. "I find it quite impossible to be … a man … without a reputation. Seeing as how I saved your life, Mr. Penfold. Would you be so kind as to return the favor?"

He set the glass on a table, pale fingers nearly having dropped it. "I … how would I begin to … "

"You are a man of influence. Words of confidence in character go a long way, my good man. All I ask of you is that you speak well of me. Aid me in being able to show my face again."

Penfold glanced at the mask, then away. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. "I was so terribly rude. Erik, you have no idea the rumors."

He bowed his head and swirled the brandy. "I know precisely how ill I have been received of late. That is why I need someone to aid in changing that. A voice that reminds them that I am, after all, a man. I know the depth of what I ask, Penfold." He met the man's gaze. "And so do you."

* * *

Carnegie Hall's entrance was choked with the usual afternoon crowd. Charles had to press through them and nearly lost his grip on the flute case. Damrosch had given him a lot of duties to complete today in preparation for the concert. An energy infused the crowd, harsh grumbles filled the air. An elbow jabbed into his side. He backed up to rub the fresh bruise. What was the fuss?

"That's enough," a familiar voice rose above the din. He shifted to the side to spy Mr. Penfold glaring at a group of other men. "I will not stand for your insults."

"Nor will I allow you to endorse a monster! You're endangering your son by allowing that freak to be his tutor."

Penfold lifted his chin. "Were it not for that same _man_ my family and I would be dead. He saw fit to put aside my hasty judgment of him. In light of his true nature, I will do the same. Now. Who I choose to instruct my son is my choice. And I have selected one of the most gifted _men_ in all of Manhattan. The next to insult him will find his investments turned out of my company's hands."

The grumbling died down.

Charles stood transfixed by the silence.

Penfold stared down the men until they looked away. Some muttered vile oaths. But more than a few moved to converse at length. His duties temporarily forgotten, Charles lingered in the crowd listening as the tide turned. One at a time. The room broke on the stone that was Penfold.

At last the spell released him and he raced to the rehearsal rooms. Through the cracked door he discovered Erik seated at a piano beside Thomas Penfold. Music filled the air interrupted by the occasional advice from his father. Erik was out of the house!

Confidence. That was the air his tone invoked. Were things finally changing?

* * *

The whirlwind day over, Charles slipped down into the mansion's stables and collected his horse. If he was lucky, no one would notice he was missing until he returned. He turned the reins down to the south end of the island, the address running through his thoughts between every hoof-beat. The long hours he had spent refilling the aging Persian's glass, coaxing the reluctant tale from him, could not have been in vain.

He passed into the lower districts, the streets clogged with debris. Some of the buildings crumbled in disrepair. The gazes of the people on the street changed until they no longer looked up as he passed by. An elevated train rumbled on the tracks above him as he pressed into the Bowery.

Time had not been kind. And the words of the old man echoed as Charles took in the decrepit buildings. Charles had lived in Manhattan since he was eight-years-old, and yet he had never ventured to the south wards. Five-points, Hell's Kitchen, the Bowery … they had been names and stories. As good as myths.

He gagged at the stench pervading the air. Through the broken windowpanes, dozens of people wedged into small rooms. It seemed multiple families shared a single room apartment. Suddenly he felt guilty for ever complaining about the size of his bedroom.

When he was about to turn back up to the north, he spied the crumbling facade of the building Nadir had described. On the top floor, a soot coated window sat cocked in the frame. Paint and dry-rotted wood cascaded down with the faintest breeze. Even the building itself leaned in the elements.

Years.

His father had spent years in that dying building. The thought of the winter winds howling through the holes in the siding made Charles shiver even in the summer heat.

The sacrifice that must have been. Up until the struggle with his illness, Charles had always remembered his father as being a man obsessed with image. This building stood in direct contrast to those memories.

How had he survived?

Another train rumbled through. Charles dashed out of the way as the window shook out of the frame and crashed down onto the street.

The people on the street barely spared a glance.

"Dear God," he muttered. "No wonder he was worried. I've … I've been so wrong about him."


	29. Chapter 29

_**Chapter 29**_

"Heh." Nadir pulled the study curtain closed. "The snow is falling early this year."

From his seat at the desk, Erik flipped a page in the ledger and made a few more notes glancing at a piece of paper. "Mmm hmm."

Nadir limped over to the decanter and poured himself a glass of whiskey to ward off the chill. Idly he remarked, "Looks like it might be a long cold winter."

Erik dipped the quill in the ink and scratched out a few more lines. Without his mask covering his face, Nadir was privy to the lines furrowing his brow around the surgical scar. General chatter would not reach his friend until he had finished. Settling on the couch before the crackling fire, Nadir rubbed his leg with a sigh and listened to the scratching of the pen … until it ceased.

A drawn out sigh disrupted the quiet. Nadir glanced back to find the ledger closed, and Erik staring at a scrap of paper.

"What is that about?"

He leaned back in the chair and brushed his chin with a finger. "An inquiry into the future."

"A what?"

"The Chantelli's have not presented Simonetta."

Nadir sat up a bit straighter. "It's been nearly a year. What would be the reason?"

"Precisely my thought when I learned it." Erik folded the paper and tucked it inside his vest. "That is why I have had an old friend engaged in answering that question." He rose from the chair and began to pace of the floor. "I had considered the slow regrowth of my accounts abysmal at best. What an astonishing revelation that Chantelli has been hiding worse."

"Worse? Erik, I know that through some very careful planning you have managed to haul things back from the brink. But … how could Chantelli's situation be worse?"

He paused by the desk and pulled out another slip of paper. "Because he is about to lose his company. Pressure from another, who wishes to demolish everything that Chantelli has carefully built over the previous decade."

"That's terrible."

He nodded and pondered the page at length. "But that is the key."

"The key?"

"To Charles's future." He tapped the paper. "If I can extend aid to Chantelli and help him keep his business then perhaps he would reconsider … "

Nadir pushed up off the couch. "With what? What could you possibly do, Erik? You said it yourself, you only just managed to get your own books balanced."

"Details." He resumed his pacing. "All a matter of assets."

* * *

Her voice sang in the deserted study, an elegant cascade of sound from her strings. Erik's fingers caressed the chords from her. The strings were new, but the voice was old and as seasoned as her minstrel. His hands oiled her scared wood, each mark a story he recalled.

He counted the decades since she can come into his life. The ages she had passed through as his constant companion. How his hands would seek her when the weight of the world threatened him. In those early days in the Eurasian faires, she had been his only pleasure. The one female who never betrayed him, never abandoned him in his time of need.

Oh how he needed her now. Every fiber of his being trembled as he pulled the bow across the perfectly tuned strings. She wept in the shafts of afternoon sunlight piercing the frosted windows. His eyes clenched as he swayed to the lament, letting it carry him across the time.

She had been with him in Giovanni's cellar. She had traveled the breadth of Eurasia when Nadir had fetched him to the courts of Persia. There she had been his refuge against the building torrent of rage. Through the terrible flight from those cursed lands, she rode in the horse's pack and was always ready to sing beneath the starlight. When he returned to France, she soothed his spirit in the isolated nights. Even on the shores of the underground lake, she didn't complain when he asked her to share his affection with Christine. Her voice helped to bespell Christine … and even then, his Stradivarius never shunned him. On the ocean liner she was his balm against despair. Even in the shameful confines of the Bowery. The gutters failed to tarnish her beauty as she lent her voice to the trickle of coins that prevented his utter ruin.

Blanjini.

A tear welled in his eye. He had never forgotten the blind violinist all those years ago. The treasure trove of talent. Who secretly suffered beneath his grin until consumption finished him. That man should have been on the stage of Carnegie Hall. He should have been the first chair … but that was years before that dream was even uttered.

The Stradivarius's lament wove her spell as he glided through the room.

His brave companion. It was her voice that graced the stage on that opening night. It was her that bewitched the audience during the Music Hall's gala. Erik's fingers had played, but she had sang to them, while inside he had been quaking with fear behind the nightingale's mask.

So many years.

Countless songs on her five strings.

Always. Always she had been there, waiting. Asking but one thing. Just to be caressed.

The last note trembled as his hand shivered. He opened his eyes and the tears rolled down beneath the mask. Carefully he laid her in the case, nestling her bow in its slot.

The gas lighting gleamed on her polished surface. He stared beyond his reflection in her finish. Minutes ticked by, the tips of his fingers touched her side. Contact. His heart thundered in his ears.

Slowly, he withdrew his hands and grasped the lid of her case. A shadow closed in on her as the lid came down. He hung his head and squeezed his eyes tight. His hands rested on top of the case before closing into fists.

At last, he forced his fingers to work the clasps. Each clicked into place. A single tear darkened the scared leather. Erik took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He rubbed the tear into the leather with his forefinger.

Picking up the gloves from the desk he tugged them on before glancing at the pocket watch. It was time.

* * *

Nadir stood in the middle of the ball room. Something didn't look right. Something was missing. Rays of sunshine danced through the stained glass onto the polished marble floor. But it was lacking that special touch … the little rainbows. He glanced up.

It was gone!

The massive diamond Erik had stolen from the shah all those decades ago in the Persian courts had been wrenched from the mount. Nadir hurried into the foyer and paused as his cane tapped bare stone.

The rug. There had been a rug here. An imported rug. It was gone!

As quickly as he could he climbed the steps to find vases and paintings missing. A good number of them, gone. He rushed into the study, vast holes in Erik's collection alarming him.

Christine emerged from the bedroom securing an earring.

"Where is Erik?" he demanded. "There is a thief … "

She paused and glanced at a space on the shelf where a Ming vase once had been. "He is up in the rooftop garden. Leave him be, Nadir. There is no thief."

"It's midwinter!" Nadir turned to leave.

She grasped his shoulder and shook her head. "He needs to be alone with his thoughts. We are waiting."

"Waiting? Waiting for what?"

"The Chantelli's response to Erik's gesture of good will."

"What gesture?"

She looked around the room, her eyes paused on the empty spaces.

"Oh Allah! Erik has –"

She bowed her head. "He somehow managed to find enough to cover what Chantelli needed for his business. He returned earlier after leaving his calling card there. Chantelli was away. He didn't want to speak, he just pushed past me and went to the roof. This has been hard on him, Nadir. Some of those things—"

"Came from over seas. I know." He sighed. "No wonder he has been acting odd of late." He hobbled around the depleted study and narrowed his eyes. "There is still so much in here, and yet … it feels like something is missing."

* * *

The winter garden lay buried beneath the snow. In the moonlight he sat hunched on a stone bench. His cloak wrapped around him. Each breath formed a small puff that hung in the air before the breeze pulled it away.

Erik's eyes gazed sightlessly into the distance. Inside, a great hollow plagued him that no cold could numb.

He had no recollection of coming here. But the snow around him had melted from his body heat. Everything was freezing. But his limbs refused to move. Silently he pleaded to the stars to end it all now.

They twinkled in the heavens, oblivious to his anguish.

An angel trudged through the snow draped in a thick wool cloak. "Come. It is late."

Erik reached for her embrace. The moment she brought him to his feet he collapsed into her arms and wept. The tears crystallized in the night air.

"Shhh. It will be all right. You're half frozen. Let's get you warmed up."


	30. Chapter 30

_**Chapter 30**_

Charles paced from one end of the study and back again. Over and over. Beads of sweat trickled down his face despite the gentle snowfall outside the window. He paused and stared toward the open door. One step carried him closer, then another.

Christine laid a hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "No. You will jeopardize everything."

"He's been down there for over an hour!"

"Yes." She guided him away from the door. "If there is anything I have learned, over the years with your father, it's that a good negotiation takes time. Signor Chantelli has come all this way in response to Erik's calling card. This is a delicate situation given your father's current reputation. He's looked upon better, but it's still a risk for Chantelli."

Charles shrugged out her grasp. "To hell with reputations! This isn't about grown men grousing over words. This is about a relationship!"

"I know. And he knows. Charles, please. This step must be taken by him alone."

"Damn it, Mother! I'm a man, not a child!"

She held her finger to her lips. "Keep your voice down."

He growled and was about to reply when the front door closed. Footsteps carried up the stairs.

Charles rushed toward the door and nearly collided with Erik. "Well? Well? What happened?"

Erik paused long enough to press an envelope into Charles's hand before passing him.

As his shaking hands opened the letter, Christine moved to his side and put her hands on his arm waiting to see. Charles pulled out the letter and devoured every word before letting out a cry of delight.

He embraced his mother and kissed her. "It's done! Official, and in writing! Our families are allied and Simonetta is promised to me."

Holding the letter aloft, he danced around the room even taking his mother's gloved hands and twirling her around as she laughed. "Patience, Charles, you must wait a few more years."

"Of course the ceremony will have to wait. But now we need not fear. Oh, I am going to be with the one I love. You will sing and of course Father will play. Isn't this wonderful?" He released her with a smile and looked around. The smile faded. "Father?"

Christine dashed to the closed bed chamber door. "Erik?"

No reply. But she had left the door open earlier.

"Erik, dear?" She tried to open the door and found it locked. "Erik please, answer me."

Her fingers drifted off the door. She turned her worried gaze to Charles.

He held the letter and read it one more time. "Something is very wrong." He traced the scroll of Erik's name on the document. Instead of the pristine loops they were infused with a tremble. "Mother. What is wrong with him?"

She shook her head. "I'm unsure. He's been taciturn lately. I knew he was preoccupied, and so I didn't press." She tugged Charles from the door. "We certainly shouldn't now. Come. We'll need to find answers elsewhere and I think I have an idea of how."

* * *

Days later, Damrosch sat behind his desk with both Christine and Charles across from him.

"Good heavens, Christine. You mean to tell me he hasn't spoken in days?"

Charles answered, "I've glimpsed him in two places. In bed. Or at the bottom of a wine bottle before the study's hearth. I preferred it when he was angry and storming the mansion to … whatever this is."

"And no one knows why?"

"This isn't his usual moodiness." She grasped the edges of her cloak. "You know Erik well enough. This … this is something different. I'm worried. What if there's another … "

Damrosch leaned forward. "No. We're not going to even consider that."

The door opened, Nadir rushed in and fumbled to shut it behind him. "He sold her!"

They all stared at him in confusion. "Sold what?"

"He sold her. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen the auction listing myself." Nadir shook his head and leaned on the desk. "I should have guessed it earlier. What else could have fetched such a high price."

Christine sat up a little straighter. "What auction? Nadir, what are you talking about?"

He caught his breath and pulled out the listing dated just over a week ago. "Erik held an auction where he sold a number of items." His finger stabbed at one of the listings.

Her face blanched.

Charles stood up to get a closer look. "His Stradivarius!"

"No. Erik never would have parted with her. She's been with him too long. He loves her move than me."

Nadir held a hand out. "Have you seen her in the study? In the music room? No. The case is usually beside the piano. But it's missing."

Damrosch reached for the paper and studied it. "Who won it?"

"The man I spoke with, a Mr. Stirling, refused to tell me. He said it was confidential."

He rubbed his chin. "We need to get that violin back at all costs."

Charles sighed. "Look at the starting bid. I don't know about you, Damrosch, but very few people I know have that kind of money."

He tucked the listing in his pocket and reached across the desk to pat Christine's hand. "This may take a while. But I assure you, I will find some way to get Erik his soul back. The poor man has lost so much, he deserves his life-long companion."

* * *

The fire crackled in the hearth. Erik's dry eyes stared into the flames, unblinking. The neck of a half-drunk bottle of wine hung from his loose fingers. At his feet, a random assortment of empty bottles lay discarded, forgotten. He didn't care what kind they were. The numbing effect was the same whether white or red, sweet or dry. Hell, he didn't even taste any of it.

Silence. That was all he heard. They were gone. They had tired of their nagging little questions. Tired of asking if he was alright? Hungry? Wanted to do something?

Erik scowled. What was there to do anymore? What did it matter? Sure, he could go out on the street now. Society once more found value in him. In his bank book. The wine sloshed as he took a long gulp.

He hadn't done a damn bit of any of that for himself. What did his life matter anyway? It was Charles. The way the boy spoke of his love for her. The way she had risked being seen with him, breaking etiquette. They had true love. That was more important than anything in the world.

His eyes drifted to the empty space beside the piano. He snapped his gaze away and pried himself from the couch.

The world sloshed like the wine bottle. With staggered steps, he made his way toward the shelves and brushed his hand over the back of the little nightingale automaton. A flick of his finger beneath the beak set the bird in motion.

That one would have fetched a high price at the auction. But no. He couldn't part with it. No one would have known what the duet meant to him, the sweet melody written for Christine. There was no price for love. None … except sacrifice.

His clumsy hand shifted a book on the deep shelf. He cocked his head. Odd. Pulling out the book, he discovered a small jar concealed there. Out in the light, he turned it in his hand beholding the tumor soaking in fluids.

"This is all your fault," he slurred. "If it had not been for you then none of this shit would have happened. You ruined everything! My sanity! My life! My family! Stole my music!"

His hand gripped the side of his head.

"The music is gone! It's all gone! All gone! I am nothing, just a shell! Because of you!"

He slammed the jar back on the shelf and rammed the book back in place. "Stay there, you … you … yeah."

His feet shuffled across the floor on a wayward path to the piano. He almost made if before he stumbled and crumpled to the floor over the bottle. His hand stretched out to touch where she had always been. The space that was vacant now.

"I betrayed you," he whispered. "You gave me everything. And I … I … I am so sorry. Forgive me. I betrayed you."

He wept into his hands.

The final notes of the automaton rang in the air to cease when the rose opened her bloom. Outside the window sleet rattled against the panes.


	31. Chapter 31

_**Chapter 31**_

"Shh!" Simonetta craned her head in the dark. After a minute passed without interruption, she relaxed and embraced Charles. "Oh, thank heavens it wasn't my governess."

"Even with the signed letter between our fathers, we have to be careful." He held her tight.

"Do we really have to wait years?"

"Afraid so." He sighed.

"Charles? What's wrong?" She leaned back to see him a little better in the dim lighting.

"I uhh … everything is fine." He forced a smile.

She caressed his cheek. "You, sir, are a terrible liar. Something is bothering you these past few weeks. Your eyes keep going distant. Now what is it? You know you can tell me anything."

He took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. "I feel … so guilty."

"Guilty?" She chuckled. "Guilty about what?"

His finger traced her chin. "Us. That I have you. Please, don't take that wrong. I'm not even sure how to say this … but my father … "

She furrowed her brow. "I haven't seen him around at all. With the holiday concerts coming, it is very unusual. Is he alright?"

He shook his head. "I am afraid not. He went to such lengths to secure our future … had I known I would have stopped him."

"Charles, what did he do?"

"Mother said it best." He ran a hand through his hair leaving it mussed. "He sold his soul."

She inhaled sharply.

"The Stradivarius purchased our future."

"Oh God. Charles!"

"I know." His head fell into his hands. "That was more than just an instrument to him. Much more than I ever truly understood. He's been little more than a ghost since then."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? There must be something we can do."

He looked her in the eyes and took her hand. "We've been trying to find it, but the buyer is illusive."

"Damrosch?"

"Working on it."

She brushed his cheek. "For the sake of his sacrifice we need to be discrete. I love you. Let me know if I can do anything to help."

He embraced her in a hug. "I'll see you at the holiday concerts?"

* * *

The carriage halted before Damrosch's door. Charles and Nadir exited chatting idly. Christine leaned forward and clasped Erik's gloved hand. He drew back with a grunt.

"I know you're not in a festive mood, Darling. But this will be good for you. Damrosch hasn't seen you in a while. It will be just a nice quiet evening around his hearth."

Erik gripped the cane and leaned back in his seat.

"Just a few hours. It's all I ask." Stubbornly, she held her hand out for him. Her muscles ached before he leaned forward and pushed out of the seat to exit the carriage.

She smiled as they walked up to the front door where Damrosch rushed out to greet them. "Good evening! So wonderful to see you Erik and Christine. Come in. I have mulled wine waiting in the great room."

The room was draped in ribbons and greenery strung in garlands. High-backed chairs were set for a nice cozy conversation. Erik settled into one near the corner. His empty eyes stared at the tree.

Around him the others laughed and smiled. Their cups clinked as they drank.

Empty. Hollow as a rotted oak tree, he sat there as the world moved on without him. None of this mattered. He couldn't smile through this pain. Couldn't feel anything through the pain.

"Hold on, that appears to be our late arrival. Excuse me a moment." Damrosch left the room.

Erik sighed and huddled a little deeper into the chair. Only them. No one else. It was hard enough with their words grating off his frayed nerves. He didn't need anything more. He shut his eyes.

"Well now, someone looks a bit under weather. I was going to wait to give him his gift until later. But perhaps this may brighten his spirits."

Erik opened his eyes and looked up to find Andrew Carnegie standing before him with an immense grin. The weight of something slid onto his lap stole his attention.

He glanced down to find the familiar leather case. His heart ceased to beat for a moment. Tentatively he opened the first clasp. Then the second.

No one spoke. No one said a word.

Inch by inch he opened the case until the lights caught on her gleaming finish. The strings beckoned to him. He could not pull his gloves off fast enough.

He cradled her in his shaking hands just inhaling that familiar scent. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"Merry Christmas to the most deserving man I know." Carnegie held up the mulled wine in a toast. "Now, let's hear a little overdue music."

In the glow of the heath, Erik rose from the chair and stood up straight for the first time in months. He gave her a quick tuning. When her true voice rose into the air, he smiled.

"Thank you. I am whole again."

* * *

 _ **The End of this novel, but there is one more ... see you in the fifth and final leg!  
**_


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